Mortality
by Sojourns
Summary: "I can't tell you who to choose, Katniss." Peeta tells me. His eyes are apologetic. But I need him to. I cannot make this decision on my own. "Please." I plead with him. "Choose Gale." He says reluctantly. "He has the better chance of surviving." K/P/G
1. The Reading of the Card

**Mortality**

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by Suzanne Collins. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Note**: This story focuses on the love triangle between Peeta, Katniss and Gale. Information about characters and situations has been pulled from _Catching Fire_ and _Mockingjay_ so if you've read those two books you may understand some of the references a little more. However, in saying that, I've tried to keep in mind that some readers may have only read _The Hunger Games_. For that reason, the present story is set after _The Hunger Games _and any references made about the other two books will be – hopefully – elaborated on in enough detail so that everybody can understand. Spoilers (especially major ones) are very minimal… if at all present. Don't want to ruin the other two books for those who haven't read them (you should read them though, by the way!)

**Ships**: Personally I'm a Gale fan myself (although I love both). But for those of you out there who are Peeta fans (there are a lot, I know) don't worry because my crazy sister who co-writes this with me is a Peeta fan. So we'll have equal amount of time for the boys.

That's enough out of me. Hope you enjoy the story.

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><p>There is nothing in this world is infinite. No one thing can outlast the general order of life. There'd be no surviving natural selection should you be the organism with the unfavourable trait. The dinosaurs were decimated after all in one giant sweep. And evolution will not slow down for the lethargic mouse. No, for the presence of infinity would mean no mortality. And mortality, my friends, is how the world works.<p>

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><p><em><strong>Chapter One: The Reading of the Card<strong>_

_Rue's four-note tune floated out of the mockingjay's mouth effortlessly, as if it had been born to sing the melody. I know that I should feel relieved, knowing that she is safe, but I don't. I've been here before. Too many times before. So instead of acknowledging the bird's song, I begin to run towards the clearing, already knowing where I need to go. _

_The soles of my shoes barely touch the cold dirt before they are back in the air, I am running that fast. A sense of urgency grips me suddenly and I know where it springs from; the memory of that day in the arena. I know what is coming. It's almost impossible to shake the feeling of dread that promises to consume me, so instead I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other hoping that this will be over quickly. Hoping that I am not plagued by this nightmare of a memory any longer than necessary. _

_I push past the tree branches that threaten to impede my progress, and as I do a flock of mockingjay's whiz by my ear. The song that they carry, however, is silenced by the piercing sound of Rue screaming._

"_Kitniss! Katniss!" Her high-pitch cry seems to reverberate around the arena. Distantly I wonder if Peeta, wherever he is, can hear her too. _

"_Rue!" I call back desperately, although I already know that I will be too late. "Rue!" _

_As I break through the clearing her eyes lock with mine. I cannot hear what she is saying but I do not need to. From memory, she is screaming my name. It seems to take forever for the spear to find her body. Slowly, slowly, it pierces through the air – a silent blade – until I cannot take anymore and I scream for Peeta to wake me up._

_But he doesn't. He can't. We are no longer in the arena together. No longer sleeping side by side helping each other through our nightmares. He is in his house in the Victors Village battling his own mid-night terrors. _

"_Help me Peeta!" I try one last time._

_Nothing._

_The spear enters her small body and I cry out in grief. Blood begins to pool around her quickly, gushing out like water from a tap. She looks at me with her big, brown eyes willing me forward. Not to save her but to be with her. To comfort her. She already knows that she is going to die. It's inevitable. I take two steps before I realise that the dream has changed. There is no boy from District 1 to shoot down, nor is Rue entangled in the net. In fact, suddenly there is no Rue at all._

_Instead, lying on the dirty floor of the arena is Prim._

_I cry out in alarm and run forward, hating myself for being so slow to reach her. When I do I manage to catch only a few words of her murmurings._

"_... your fault."_

_I shake my head not believing what she is saying._

"_... your fault." She begins to chant. "... your fault." Her blonde hair is now damp and red with blood. _

"_No..." I manage to choke out, my throat tight with tears. "Please Prim. Don't."_

_But Prim doesn't say anymore. Her body convulses twice before she goes still. Dead._

"_Prim!" I shout. "Prim!" _

_Her eyes are still open and locked on to mine. Even in death they are judgmental and unforgiving. _

_I scream._

Cold hands shake me out of the depths of my darkness. It takes me a while before I adjust to the brightness of my room but when I do I find myself looking up into Peeta's worried face.

"Catnipp, you alright?"

No, not Peeta's... Gale's. I don't know whether I feel slightly relieved or disappointed.

'Catnipp?" Gale shakes me again.

It's hard to find my voice with the memory of Prim's death in the back of my mind. _'It was just a dream' _I keep telling myself, but the memory fails to dissipate.

"She may need some water. I'll go get some." The instant I hear her voice I immediately relax. Prim. She is the perfect epitome of innocence. I am not naive enough to believe that the hunger games last year did not change her, however. In fact, it changed everybody. But somehow Prim managed to maintain her purity of self. A complete juxtaposition of me.

I'm unsure whether she is still in the room so I look up at Gale and ask, "Is she gone?" I'm surprised to hear that my voice sounds hoarse, as if I had been screaming for hours. Maybe I had.

I feel the warmth as Gale scoops my hands into his. They are rough from years of hunting but they are also gentle and strong. Just like Gale himself. "Yeah. She'll be back soon though." The tone of his voice is calm and tender, but underneath the softness I can detect his urgency to help me resolve my issues. To fix me. To prove himself to be my ultimate protector. To demonstrate that his love for me is, well, over and above Peeta's.

I sigh.

"Another nightmare?" Gale prods. "You seem to be having them a lot lately." If his hands weren't holding mine so tight I'm sure that they would be running through his hair. It's a new-found habit that must have started while I was in the arena.

"Yeah, another nightmare." I say, already knowing that it will not be an adequate enough response for him. He'll want more. He always does.

"Was it about Rue?" His eyes bore into mine, willing to understand and explore what haunts me.

I flinch. I cannot help it. Talking about Rue with Gale never resolves any issues for me. He doesn't get it, and he knows it. He just can't understand how I'm feeling or what is going on inside my head. He can't relate. He wasn't in the arena. Peeta was. And it kills him. Like it kills me.

It's the one thing we can't talk about. The arena. Oh... and Peeta.

"Did Prim make an appearance again?" I nod in reply, not trusting myself to say anything more. Gale knows all about my dreams and what transpires within them. But I don't tell him, Peeta does.

"It's okay, we don't have to talk about it." He says so nonchalantly, like it doesn't tear him up inside. But I can tell that it does. You don't have to be his best friend to realise it. I think that's why Peeta told him about my dreams in the first place. To try and help Gale understand. To try and bridge the relationship gap that was building between him and me the first six months after returning from the hunger games. Well, that's my theory anyway. I've heard Gale say otherwise to Primrose. He's under the opinion that Peeta was, well is, trying to undermine him. As if Peeta is saying 'you don't have her... I do.' I don't believe that, however.

Gale releases my hands and puts them back down gently on the bed. Prim has re-entered the room.

"I have some water for you, sis." She says. I take the glass from her hand and down the water in an instant. I close my eyes for a second, revelling in the cooling sensation as the clear liquid slides down my throat. Healing. It's exactly what I needed. Trust Prim to know it.

When I open my eyes I only just manage to catch Gale as he exits the room. His tee-shirt is taught across his broad shoulders and his movements are stiff as if his whole body is tense. He's about to explode. I can tell. He'll probably go for a run to cool off. Either that or go hunting. Maybe both.

In my peripheral vision I can see Prim following my eyes to the doorway. "You said his name, you know." She tells me.

My eyes snap back to hers. "Who? Gale's?"

"No, Peeta's."

I put the empty glass down on the bed-side coffee-table a little harder than I initially intended. It smashes as it comes into contact with the wood and ricochets into a thousand tiny pieces across the floor. Prim goes to scoop up the broken shards.

I shake my head. "Leave it Prim. I'll do it." I swing my legs to one side of the bed and stand up, mindful to side-step any broken pieces of glass. The thought of seeing Prim cut her hand on the glass sends shivers through me. I push the image of her lying bloody on the cold floor of the arena to the back of my mind. As she grows up I won't be able to protect her from a broken heart or some of the disappointments that responsibility brings. But I can protect her from this.

Prim goes to the cupboard and hands me the dust pan and broom. I take it from her. She doesn't ask me about my dream. Instead she sits on the edge of the beds and starts telling me about what she has planned for the day.

"Mum needs some more medical supplies. We used them all up last night on the Mason boy who got burned down in the mine. So I'm thinking of grabbing some bandages, burn cream and antiseptic from Mrs Nickleson's." I think she could tell that I wasn't really listening because the next thing she says is, "Haymitch also asked me to go and get some alcohol for him down at the Hob."

My head shoots up, what little pieces of the remaining glass instantly forgotten. "What?" I demand, instantly furious. "How dare he ask that of you!"

Prim just sits there grinning at me like a cheshire cat as if she found my sudden outburst incredibly humorous. Well, she obviously did.

I go back to scooping the broken shards of glass into the dust pan, hiding the small smile that is playing on my lips. "So he didn't ask you then I gather?" I ask after a few moments of silence.

Prim laughs. It's so good to hear the sound. "Of course not Katniss! He knows that he would have to deal with you if he did. Then mother, Gale, Peeta, Rory... there would be a lot of people lining up to take his alcohol away in punishment."

The instant my eyebrows raise she knows that she said something she shouldn't have. "Rory, eh?"

She blushes. So innocent.

"So how long has this been going on for?"

"We're - "

"Friends." My mother interrupts her as she walks into the room. She's holding a steaming hot bowl in her hand. "I made you some rhubarb porridge." She hands me the bowl.

"What about Prim?" I ask, taking the porcelain from her.

"I've already had some." Prim replies, smiling at me. She looks so beautiful when she smiles like that. Her blue eyes sparkle and I can only imagine how many sponsors she would have acquired had I not volunteered to go into the arena. She would have put the prep team Flavius, Venus and Octavia out of a job because she needs no make up to stand out. That's for sure.

I lift the steel spoon and shovel some porridge into my mouth. It tastes delicious. My mother's cooking skills have certainly improved with all of the new ingredients sent to us from the Capital. A gift for being the Victor of the hunger games.

I can vaguely hear Prim and my mother having a conversation but I only make out the words "antiseptic", "tweezers", and "radishes". I'm not really listening.

The next thing I know Prim has left the room and my mother is standing there giving me a look that is clearly saying something but I have no idea what.

She sighs. "You know, Primrose looks up to you so much."

Her comment takes me by surprise. I don't know what to say.

"She wants you to teach her how to hunt."

"What?" I blanch. Prim... hunt? I've spent years hunting so that she wouldn't have to. "Why?" I ask.

My mother shrugs her delicate shoulders. It's clear where Prim gets her slenderness from. "She already asked Gale." When it is clear that a response from me isn't forthcoming she continues, "He said that she has to ask you."

I let out a breath I hadn't realise I'd been holding. "I thought she enjoyed helping you with the medicinal stuff?"

'Yes she does. And she will continue to do that. But she's insistent."

"And what do you think?" I ask. Without even realising it I've put my hands on my hips and have taken up a defensive stance. What am I expecting? For my mother and me to disagree on this? Will she want me to take Prim hunting? Do I want to take Prim hunting? The answer comes to me immediately. No.

"I think you'll make the right decision... whatever that is," She shrugs as if it's no big deal. But it's a lie. I can tell. The movement is jerky and forced. "This is your area of expertise, not mine." I'm surprised. For the first time it's like she is acknowledging that we almost share mothering responsibilities when it comes to Prim. Perhaps it was me volunteering to go into the arena that first woke her up to this fact. Whatever it was, I'm happy for it, because it's true.

"I don't think I will," I admit. "She's too innocent for it."

"She's not as innocent as you think, Katniss." She says while brushing the hair back from my eyes. The motherly contact still comes as a surprise. It's been happening a lot since I returned from the arena, almost as if she's trying to make up for lost time. It still feels strange to me. "Seeing you in the arena changed her." She looks at me... no, through me... as if remembering all the things that I had done. Hunting. Killing to survive. I wonder if she is remembering back to when I used to be innocent. It feels like a lifetime ago.

I take an automatic step backwards. Her hand drops back down and rests limp at her side.

She must have guessed what I was thinking because the next thing she says is, "I don't mean it like that. You did what you had to do to survive. You did good things in that arena too, don't forget." I know what she's talking about. Saving Peeta. "What I mean is that Primrose sees the way Gale looks at you. She wants Rory to look at her like that too."

I laugh. I cannot help it. So this was about puppy love? Prim is the most beautiful person I know... both in body and mind... and she wants to be like me? It seems ridiculous. Nonsensical. Almost crazy. "I'm sure Rory will like Prim for who she is, not who she wants to pretend to be." I say.

My mother just looks at me. "It's hard to compete with the mockingjay, you know." She says. And before I have the opportunity to ask what she means by that she quickly changes the subject. "The Quarter Quell Reading of the Card is on the television tonight at 7:30pm. They announced it this morning. I've invited Peeta, Hamish and Gale and his family to join us both for the announcement and dinner." She takes the emptied bowl from my hand and goes to leave the room. I watch as she hesitates in the doorway, as if she wants to say something more, but she seems to decide against it because in the next moment I'm alone.

I don't know how long I stood there, in the room by myself, after she left. I don't even remember what I had been thinking about. But it wasn't long before it was late afternoon and the voices of Peeta and Haymitch could be heard coming from downstairs. Was it dinner time already?

I quickly get changed into a simple blue dress – one that Cinna had designed for the Victor Tour a few months back - and look in the mirror. I look... tired, I think.

I feel it too.

"Katniss! Come pour me a drink." Haymitch's rough voice calling me downstairs breaks me out of my thoughts. He has had one too many already by the sounds of it. The slurring of his words is always a good indication. I roll my eyes, spray on a little perfume, and then exit the room.

As I walk down the stairs I cannot help but feel as if I'm in one of those horrible Capital teen-movies where the girl goes to something called a prom and her date is gawking at her from the bottom of the stairwell as if she's the most beautiful thing in the world. Gale and I have always laughed during those moments, both at the ridiculous movie and at Prim's romantic-filled, tear-glistened eyes, thinking that it would never happen in real life. And if it did, how terribly awkward it would be. But here I am, walking down the stairs with Haymitch telling Peeta that he'd "better shut his mouth before he starts drooling". And I don't feel awkward at all. I feel, well, beautiful.

He is wearing black suit pants with a blue cotton tee-shirt and his blonde hair is slightly damp as if he recently came out of a shower. He looks... nice.

"We match." He says as I reach the bottom, taking my hand to steady me.

It takes me a moment before I realise that he's talking about my blue dress. I smile at him. "We do."

Just then my mother walks into the foyer and exclaims happily, "Oh Peeta, you didn't have to do that." I have no idea what she's talking about until I see the baked loaf of bread sitting in his hands. "Your father did such a good job raising you. So polite." She takes the bread from him.

"Well I couldn't come empty handed, Mrs Everdeen."

My mother's reply of "I told you to call me -" was drowned out by Haymitch's exclamation of "...and that's why I brought the alcohol." My mother was never granted the opportunity to scowl at him, however, because just then there was a knock on the door. The Hawthorne family had arrived.

I let go of Peeta's hand. There is a flash of hurt and something else that I cannot pinpoint -anger? Disappointment? - in his eyes but the next second it is gone. As if it had never been there at all.

Posy was the first one through the front door followed by Vick, Rory, their mother and then, finally, Gale. He must have gone hunting during the day because he has his hunting trousers on and his forage bag is still slung over his shoulder. In his right hand dangles two dead rabbits and a squirrel. Their throats have been slashed. He trapped them.

"Gale went hunt!" says posy, pointing at Gale's haul. She beams up at me proudly. Her missing two front teeth make her look even younger than four. "Look." She points again.

"I can see that." I tell her. "He's very good, isn't he?" She nods back at me enthusiastically.

"The best!" She says.

Behind me I can just make out Haymich telling Peeta, "Two rabbits, one squirrel and his very own adorable cheerleader. Sure as hell beats a loaf of bread."

I can't quite catch Peeta's reply. Maybe there was none.

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><p>Dinner was somewhat subdued. We all sat around the dinner table making small talk while eating the stuffed-turkey my mother spent all day preparing and filling ourselves with potato mash on the side.<p>

"What is the nut in the stuffing, Jenny? It's wonderful." Mrs Hawthorne asks my mother, filling a silence that has somehow managed to stretch long past five minutes.

"Walnut." My mother replies. "I can give you the recipe if you'd like."

"Yes please."

Another silence. This time it stretches well past ten minutes.

"Enough of this." Haymitch says, knocking over his whiskey bottle as he waves his hands in the air drawing everyone's attention. "Nobody wants to bring it up, so let the drunk do it and get it over with." Everyone knows that he's not exactly drunk at the moment. Well, not drunk for Haymitch. But nobody corrects him because he has finally brought up the conversation that nobody wanted to start but everyone wanted to talk about. No, needed to talk about.

The Quarter Quell announcement. The reading of the card.

"It's the seventy-fifth anniversary of the hunger games this year which means that it's going to be the third Quarter Quell."

'Qwarter -" Posy begins, but Haymitch interrupts her, clearly not in the mood for disruption.

"Yes a Quarter Quell," He continues. "This means that this year's hunger games are going to have something additional about them. Something _special_ which will make them more interesting for the Capital. In the First Quarter Quell the districts had to vote who they sent into the arena. The second Quarter Quell had double the tributes. This year, well, who knows? "

"They might make it two girl tributes or two boys instead of having one of each." Says Rory. "Or maybe each of the two tributes from each district will be tied together to make fighting and hiding more difficult. Or maybe..." Clearly he has been thinking about it. A lot. And why wouldn't he? He's eligible for these games whereas myself, Peeta– being previous Victors – and Gale – now being nineteen and considered too old – will no longer have our names in the bowl. "Maybe they'll make sure there's no survivor." When everyone turns to look at him he rushes to explain, "You know, because well, there were two survivors last year and all." He gives me an apologetic glance.

The thought sends shivers through us all. No survivors. That would be horrible. Even more so because Peeta and myself, along with Haymitch, will be mentoring the District 12 tributes this year. Would they punish the tributes this year because of my rebellion last year with the berries?

A sudden thought strikes me. Maybe they won't be punishing the other tributes... maybe they'll be punishing me. "Or they could send former Victors back into the arena." I say. "To punish us." I look at Peeta.

He doesn't seem too alarmed, but maybe that's because these are all hypothetical possibilities. Not concrete. Not final. "It's a possibility." He says.

But when the Quarter Quell announcement is on and the reading of the card begins we find out that neither of our suggestions were correct.

We watch on the television screen as President Snow removes an envelope clearly marked with a 75. This is it. Peeta squeezes my hand. He and Haymitch are by my side, my mother is on the couch with Prim, and Gale has Posy on his lap with the rest of his family around him. I can tell that he is nervous for Rory and Vick just like I am for Prim. He looks at me and I give him a nervous smile. He doesn't smile in return.

"This year," President Snow begins to read from a small square piece of paper. "On the seventy-fifth anniversary of the hunger games there will be two changes. The first pertains to the relationship between the mentors and their tributes." I can just imagine the excitement in the Capital with the revelation that there will be two changes. "Between the hours of 10am and 2pm mentors will be able to communicate with their tributes via head-set radios." He pauses for greater effect. I'm sure that the people in the Capital are clapping. "The second is that the upper age limit has been extended another two years. This means that we will potentially have even stronger tributes in this year's pool."

"Mummy... what does tat mean?" I hear Posy ask once the hunger games announcement has finished and the television screen turns black.

"It means," Gale's voice is tight. "That I am now eligible again for the hunger games."

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><p><strong>Please review.<strong>


	2. Mixed Feelings

**NOTE: **I want to thank all of you who reviewed the last chapter: pupulupk, micmic022, KMloveya, and danielj. You have no idea how much your kind words have encouraged me. So thank you. I would also like to thank the silent readers, because just watching the hit count rise is also incredibly motivating. Maybe this time some of you could drop me a review? A girl can hope! And a final thank you to superfan24, raquelita2, micmic022, littegoosewalking, KMloveya, extempgirlie44, and eviekins for putting me on their author alerts list and also KMloveya (again!), eviekins (again!) and itsybitsybookworm for adding me to their favourites list.

I hope you enjoy the second chapter.

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><p><strong>Chapter Two: Mixed Feelings<strong>

Fifty-five... fifty-five... fifty-five...

That number is all I've been able to think about since President Snow announced that nineteen and twenty year olds will now be eligible for this year's hunger games. That was almost two months ago.

Fifty-five. That's how many times Gale's name will be in the reaping draw this year. To support his family, and mine while I was in the arena, he was forced to take out an additional seven tesserae last year. It meant little to him at the time, however, because he would be nineteen this year and therefore not be able to participate in the games. But it means a lot now.

Fifty-five. The number is staggering. I've never heard of anybody having that many before. But then again, such numbers don't necessarily mean that you'll be picked for the arena. Clearly. Prim was only in the reaping draw once after all. Still, Gale is up against the odds. That's for sure.

I hear a soft sigh to my left, drawing my attention back to the mixing bowl in front of me.

"You've turned the cream into butter." Peeta says, switching off the electric beaters at the power point.

"Is that a good thing?" I ask, looking down at the yellowy-white mixture.

"Not if you want cream." He says. He shakes his head disbelievingly. "You can shoot a squirrel in the eye from a hundred yards but you cannot whip cream."

"Well it's not exactly simple, is it?" I say defensively.

He laughs. "Actually, it kind of is." He takes out a second mixing bowl from the cupboard and grabs another tub of thickened cream. "I'll show you," he says, taking the beaters from my hands.

I watch as he begins to whip the cream. He doesn't attack it like I had done; instead he gently takes his time with it. It's somewhat mesmerising, watching the cream fold back in on itself, almost like it had a mind of its own. I think about Peeta. He would have done the same thing when he was younger; watch his father work in the bakery and try to make the same things himself. He must have, otherwise he would never be able to bake the way that he does. So precisely...

My father taught me how to hunt. Peeta's father taught him how to bake. I cannot help but laugh at that distinction.

"What's so funny?" Peeta asks, smiling at me. Sometimes I wonder if his happiness is driven by my own.

"Nothing, really." I say, but it's clear that my answer is not sufficient. His curiosity has been kindled. He raises an eyebrow. I relent. "Well, I was just thinking about how differently we've been raised. You know, by our fathers and all."

"Oh yes, how you're the fearless hunter and I'm the domesticated goddess." He twirls on the spot, which reminds me of my pre-hunger games interview, and sprays cream all over the kitchen in the process. He had forgotten to let go of the beaters. I think he did it on purpose.

I'm laughing before I even realise I am. It's one of Peeta's greatest qualities; his ability to laugh at himself and make you laugh in the process. "How did you ever manage to survive the hunger games?" I ask in banter, shaking my head. His happy and teasing mood is infectious. I cannot help but feel lighter, as if a great weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

Peeta takes two steps towards me, bridging the gap between us. "By doing this." He says, and kisses me. The moment I feel his lips on mine I close my eyes and relax into the moment. It feels tender and warm... and loving. He smells of flour and fresh soap and of something else that I can't quite pinpoint. Spice maybe?

The kiss is over too quickly. I look into his eyes and see surprise reflecting back. I know what he's surprised about. I feel it too. We've kissed many times in the arena and on the Victory Tour but none of them had felt like this. It felt as if I meant it. As if I could see myself doing it every day for the rest of my life.

Maybe I could.

But I feel instantly guilty. I'm still unsure about my feelings for Gale and what that means for Peeta and me. I think that I'm leading him on by being so open to his affection. But a part of me cannot help it. It feels so good... to be loved like that. It's incredibly selfish, I know. The whole world already thinks that Peeta and I are a couple. Why can't I see that too?

Because of Gale. I can't let him go. I love him too much. I just don't know in what way.

"Oh don't stop on my account."

Peeta and I instantly take a step back from one another the moment we hear Haymitch's voice. Was it three o'clock already? It must be. Haymitch wouldn't be here otherwise.

"Or do. Whatever." He says, shrugging. I watch as he flops down into a cushioned armchair adjacent to the kitchen area and struggles to take out a crumpled piece of blue paper from his back pocket. "Insurance." He exclaims, waving the paper in the air, as if in answer to my questioning look. It doesn't rid me of any confusion. Or answer any questions.

I rise to the bait. "Insurance for what?" I ask. In the background I can hear Peeta packing away the cream and putting it in the fridge.

"Well, for myself obviously." I roll my eyes. It makes little sense that talking to a sober Haymitch is more difficult than talking to a drunken one. "It's a contract that I want you," He points to me. "And you," He points to Peeta. "To sign."

Now I really am confused. I look over at Peeta and can tell that he is too.

Haymitch doesn't wait for us to ask any more questions. Instead he elaborates, "For twenty-five years I've mentored District 12 tributes. Well, last year I found two people to take my place."

"Wait," says Peeta. There is hardness in his voice that is rarely there. "You mean to say that you're not going to be with us mentoring the tributes this year?"

Haymitch stares at Peeta like he has just said the most obvious thing in the world. Like the sky is blue. Or the grass is green.

"You're really going to leave us?" Peeta continues.

"What am I? Your parent?" Haymitch snaps, clearly ruffled. I don't think he expected us to question his decision. He must have thought that we'd sign the sheet straight away. Or maybe he just hoped we would.

But I cannot blame him. I am hardly looking forward to mentoring tributes... and this will be the first year that I'll be doing it. It's difficult to imagine what it must have been like for him. Mentoring fifty tributes and having only two survive. It's no wonder he's an alcoholic.

"We have no idea what we need to do." Peeta points out.

"And you think I did?" Haymitch growls out between clenched teeth, suddenly angry. I watch as he pushes himself out of the armchair and strides over to Peeta, puffing hot air like an angry dragon. They're standing so close that if Peeta leant forward a little their noses would be touching. "You know, when I went into the arena I didn't even have a mentor. And you know what I did?" He pokes Peeta in the chest. Hard. "I survived."

"Well -" Peeta begins, but Haymitch cuts him off. Clearly he has not finished.

"Then I became a Mentor. Do you think I had a clue what I was doing then? No, I didn't. But I managed." Haymitch is yelling now. His eyes are bloodshot and it makes me think that maybe he has been drinking.

"And I bet that was difficult," Peeta says. I can tell that he is trying hard to remain calm but there's a certain edge to his voice. "Having to do that all by yourself. With no guidance."

Haymitch glares dangerously. "Oh don't try that with me, word boy. I'm not a Capital citizen... I won't be fooled by your pointed tongue."

Peeta's eyes narrow, so I decide to step in before things escalate any further. "Where is this anger coming from?" I ask.

Haymitch takes a step back from Peeta and turns to look at me. I can tell that he is still angry, but it has lost some of its bite. He had forgotten I was even there it seems. Instead of answering my question, however, he proceeds to explain the process of mentor selection when there are more than two in a single District. It's almost as if he never heard my question in the first place. I think he is a little out of it. "Originally the Capital, well the President, was the one who elected who would mentor prospective tributes. Usually that decision was based on mentor popularity... meaning more recent Victors were usually selected. With a few exceptions. But now the mentors are able to decide between themselves who will go back into service. Unless, of course, they can't decide and then the Capital once again makes the decision for them."

"I didn't think President Snow would surrender such control." I say, surprised.

"He didn't. Well, he wouldn't. But this was twenty years ago, you see. Before he was President."

"And he hasn't changed it back?" Peeta asks. I can tell that he is just as surprised as I am.

Haymitch considers this a moment, then shakes his head. "Well no. I think the capital population love the drama in the idea that the mentors decide for themselves." His anger has evaporated, it seems. Almost as quickly as it had come.

"Where's the drama in that?" I ask him.

Haymitch shrugs. "Most Victors go into mentoring because it keeps up their public profile."

I still can't see how that is dramatic, but instead of asking for more of an explanation I say, "So we're deciding for ourselves then." The idea of President Snow choosing for us was out of the question. I would not give him more power over us. More power over me.

Peeta nods, agreeing. "But we discuss it. The three of us." He gives Haymitch a hard look.

But Haymitch doesn't even acknowledge it; instead he takes a pen out of his pocket and hands it to Peeta. "That's a nice gesture and all... and maybe if I hadn't already chosen for us we could all sit around in a circle holdings hands and weighing up pros and cons." Peeta and I are about to protest but he interrupts us. "No listen." He says. He turns on me. "I don't even know what you're going to argue about Katniss because you're the only girl here which means you have to be a mentor. And we all know that Peeta won't let you go off by yourself so that means..." He spreads the contract on the kitchen bench. It's incredibly crinkled, as if it has lived it in his back pocket for months. It probably has. "...that all you need to do is sign right here Peeta, and we're done. No circle needed."

"Why can't there be three of us?" Peeta asks, holding the pen above the paper.

Haymitch scowls at him. "Because, like I said before, I've done it enough."

Peeta presses on. "But there can be three, right? As in there's no law against it?"

"Three is the maximum," He answers, folding his arms across his chest. "But only if the two other Victors have never mentored before. The other districts have a pool of mentors to choose from. Hence the rule. There are many Victors out there who have never mentored before."

Peeta opens his mouth to say something but Haymitch cuts him off. Again.

"And before you say that you two have never mentored before... I believe that you are more than capable. After all, one of the most important jobs of a mentor is to get sponsors for your tribute. And I hardly think that'll be a problem for you. They'll probably sponsor your tribute simply because they're yours. The favoured Golden couple."

"That's not guaranteed." Peeta argues.

"And the other tributes might target our District 12 ones this year simply for that reason." I point out.

Haymitch shrugs. "You can deal with that if it comes."

I feel like telling him that a tribute would benefit from as much experience on their team as possible, but I don't. Because just like I do not want President Snow to make this decision for us, I also don't want to push Haymitch. He has a point. He has had to endure twenty-five years of mentoring. He deserves a year off. Besides, don't we owe him that... for helping us survive the arena last year? So instead I say, "Just think about it, would you? You don't have to give us an answer right now."

Haymitch looks at me. "No promises." He says.

"No promises." I agree.

After making sure that we signed all of the appropriate places – and that we had not written his name down anywhere - Haymitch picks up the contract and shovels it back into his pocket. "Well I better go. I have a bottle of bourbon waiting for me at home with my name on it." Nothing new there.

"By the way Katniss," He says as he turns to leave. "I ran into Gale on the way here," I can hear Peeta shifting his weight behind me. "He asked me to tell you that he's planning on going for a quick hunt at four. He says you'll know where to find him. Cocky, isn't he?" He gives Peeta a big grin before slamming the door behind him.

I quickly look up at the clock. It's 3:45.

"I can finish the caramel creams if you like?" Peeta offers, following my eyes away from the clock.

"Are you sure?" I ask.

He nods. "You should go." He's fidgeting with his hands. He wants me to stay, I can tell. But he would never tell me that. Not when he knows that I want to go.

"Maybe I can help you finish them tomorrow?" I suggest.

"I'll be down at the bakery tomorrow morning. But maybe after."

There was really nothing more to say after that.

* * *

><p>I find Gale waiting for me at our usual spot: the boulder overlooking District 12. But he doesn't look up as I approach; instead he keeps his shoulders sagged and his head in his hands. He looks a lot smaller that way... like a boy instead of a man. Vulnerable. Like his whole world is imploding in on itself and he has no idea what to do.<p>

I sit down on the rock beside him. We say little for the first ten minutes. We just sit there, his head in his hands, tearing at his hair, and me watching him. I do not touch him. He would not want me to. He is so unlike Peeta in that regard, refusing comfort when he needs it. But that's the way he is.

Haymitch's words swirl around in the back of my mind.

_Cocky, isn't he?_

He certainly doesn't look cocky now. But then, Gale would never let anybody else see him like this. He would rather close himself off and put on a facade. He looks at it as a weakness – showing your emotions. Well, strong ones. Having to grow up fast with the death of his father and becoming the sole provider of a large family taught him to be strong. To not complain. To hide his frustrations, anger and sadness from his younger siblings so that they would not understand the sacrifices he was making. So that they could live happily being cared for without feeling guilty. But he knows he can be himself around me. I can relate. I'm the same.

After another ten minutes the silence is broken, but he still doesn't look at me. He throws a flower at my feet. "She keeps giving me this. Every morning." He says. His voice is hollow.

I scoop up the delicate flower into my hands. It's a posy.

"Every morning." He repeats.

I don't have to ask who he is referring to. The flower gives it away. "She's not taking it well then, I gather?"

He sighs. It tears at my heart. "She is crying every night. It's almost unbearable. I wish I could tell her it's okay... that none of us will be selected... but I can't. I'd be lying."

"Gale -" I begin, but he cuts me off.

"Don't Katniss." He is using my actual name. I can't remember the last time he used it. "Don't sit here and say that I won't be reaped, or Rory won't or Vick... or even Prim. We don't know that."

I hesitate for a moment. "I wasn't going to say that."

Gale looks at me and gives me a slight grin. It doesn't quite reach his eyes but it's a start, I think. "You're a terrible liar."

"Not according to the Capital." I say, and as soon as the worlds are out of my mouth I wish I could take them back. Bringing up the relationship between Peeta and me, whether genuine or simulated, is not what Gale needs right now. It's not what I need. But it's too late. The words are out there.

Gale runs his hands through his hair and looks up at the sky. "Only, that's not really a lie, is it?" He says.

I don't answer him for a moment, hoping that the question was rhetorical. But Gale doesn't say anything further so I assume that it wasn't. "I don't know". I answer honestly. Another silence. "I wish I could tell you more." More silence still. He's still watching the sky, like it can bring him answers or solace or something. Maybe it can, but it has never done so in the past. I decide to change the subject and focus more on the issue at hand. In the back of my mind a little voice says 'you and Peeta are the issue at hand' but I ignore it. "I don't think Posy will be able to get over her fears of losing her brothers to the reaping until the reaping is over and you're all still here with her."

"What are the chances of that do you think? My name has been entered fifty-five times this year." He says.

I place my hand on his arm. He doesn't pull away so I take that as a good sign. "You were in the draw forty-two times last year and you weren't selected."

"No... Prim was. And I almost lost you because of it." He turns and looks at me. We are so close that I can see the faint line of freckles that run along the bridge of his nose. His hand cups my face and pulls me closer towards him. He doesn't pull me into a kiss, even though I can tell that he'd like to. Instead he waits for me to make the move. If this was Peeta I would say that he was being a gentleman, allowing me to decide whether this is what I wanted. If I felt comfortable enough to kiss him. But it's not Peeta, it's Gale. And I know what Gale is like. He's testing me. Seeing if I will kiss him... if I still have any feelings towards him. He's saying 'me or Peeta'.

Whereas Peeta smells of flour and spice Gale smells of woodland and sweat.

I cover Gale's hand with my own. "I can't," I tell him. "I just don't know." I watch as various emotions flash across his face... hurt... anger... disappointment. "I'm sorry, I -." I try to begin but Gale has put his hand up, halting me.

"Did you kiss him?" He gets up off the rock and stands up, facing me. His cheeks are flushed "When you were off playing tea-parties and baking scones or whatever today, did you kiss him?"

I think back to this afternoon and remember Peeta's lips on mine.

My silence is an answer in itself.

Gale picks up a handful of stones and throws them off the rock face as hard as he can, cursing as he does so. When he is finished he whips back around and looks down at me. I can tell that he is furious but that he is trying to keep it in. He's not doing a good job. "Do you know why I was upset when you first came here?" He asks, pointing.

"Yes," I say, standing up. My tone is as gentle as I can make it. "Because you're worried about Posy and your brothers. You're worried about the reaping next week. You're worried about being selected."

Gale just laughs. It's humourless. "You have no idea!" He says.

"Then it's about Peeta and me." I say somewhat reluctantly, hoping that I wouldn't have to bring that up again.

Gale throws another stone off the cliff. "Wrong again, Katniss."

I put my hands on my hips, getting fed up with Gale's attitude and games. "Well just tell me then." I snap.

He strides over so close to me that I can feel his breath as he growls, "I was feeling guilty. Do you know why I was feeling guilty?" I shake my head and he grabs my hand. Hard. "This flower," he points down at the posy on the ground. "Is supposed to be a 'good luck charm' so my name doesn't get called out next week at the reaping." I'm confused because I don't know where he's going with this. It has to be one of the few times in our relationship where I have no idea what he's thinking. It scares me. "But do you know what I do with every flower she has given me the last month?" This time I know the question is rhetorical. "I bring it out here and I squash it. Then I throw it off the cliff like I just did to those rocks."

"Wait... what... why?" I stammer, horrified.

Gale is shouting. "Because he will always have something over me unless I go into that arena!"

It doesn't take a genius to know that Gale is referring to Peeta. I'm stunned. Shocked. Appalled at what he is implying. No, at what he is saying. When I finally find my voice I shout back, "Do you honestly think that's true? Don't you realise that if you go into the arena you won't end up with me... you'll end up dead!"

"Better dead then seeing you with him every day for the rest of my life!"

I slap him hard across the face. "Don't you ever, and I mean ever, say something so stupid again." This time I am not shouting; instead my voice is low and threatening. "Do you think so little of me? That I would choose you or Peeta based on who has gone into the arena? And what about your family? You know how it feels to watch someone close to you in the arena – what do you think that would do to them? What about Posy, ha? How would she handle that? She has nightmares already at the thought of you going in!" I feel like slapping him again I'm so worked up, but I don't. I wait for his reply.

It doesn't come. Instead Gale turns away from me and starts to walk back towards the District.

"Gale!" I shout, calling him back. It feels so unfinished, this conversation. "Gale!"

But he doesn't turn around, and in the next second he has walked behind a massive oak tree and I cannot see him anymore.

He's gone.

* * *

><p><strong>Please Review!<strong>


	3. The Reaper of Reapings

**NOTE: **Again I just want to express my thanks to those of you who reviewed the last chapter: , pupulupk, mirrorcode, KMloveya, tully, and-u-know-it, Peal-and-Locket, KelseyLou512, xAubex, Charlotte, and those who are anonymous. At the end of this chapter I've written a short paragraph hopefully answering any questions you asked. I feel incredibly lucky that there has been an explosion of people who put this story on their author alerts, so thank you: booknerd14, evrsweit, Fanpire109, illuminatedillusions, , Lorelei Eve, Margaritaville08, micmic022, Pearl-and-Locket, Peeta Mellark Is All Mine, queenskin, raquelita2, roseyferreira, Ryoko-nee, signedsecret, and xAubex. And finally, thank you booknerd14, HungerGamesFanatic 8D, jaleviaQueen, and signedsecret for adding my story to your favourites list.

I hope you enjoy chapter three.

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><p><strong>Chapter Three: The Reaper of Reapings<strong>

In my seventh year at school a boy named Vickory Hamilton, who was in year nine at the time, was asked to write a poem about the Day of Reaping. The request in itself was not particularly memorable. As it was, every year our school principal would choose one student considered to be a talented and promising writer to author and present a piece of writing to the assembly. The piece of writing was always biased and always focused on the Capitol's necessary need to remind us of their dominance. More Capitol propaganda. Clearly not the student's point of view and clearly something the principal was ordered to do.

But that year, I remember sitting in the audience as Vickory slowly ascended the school stage. The sweat marks under his armpits and across his back were still visible to me even though I was seated six rows back. He appeared... afraid. No, afraid didn't cut it. Terrified. But no-one made any comments about it. Nobody laughed, or snickered or called out. Because that year President Snow – for the first time in our school's history – had been the guest of honour. And nobody made a sound.

Everyone in the hall had expected the usual ten minute speech about Panem's history and the benefits of Reaping Day that had become so customary it was monotonous. But when Vickory finally managed to pull himself up to the lectern and look out into the audience, we were all surprised. He took out the speech from his back pocket, unfolded it, tore it to pieces and then watched as it floated to the floor. He no longer looked afraid. Instead, he looked fiercely determined. That's when I realised, along with everyone else, that something unusual was about to happen.

When he spoke it only lasted for thirty seconds. In fact, it might have been less than that. But I still remember the words, as clear as the day I originally heard them.

_The sun is shining but everything is grey._

_That's what it's like on Reaping Day._

He could have written a poem that had a complicated rhythmic pattern or one that was embellished with convoluted words. But he didn't. He kept it simple. Whether or not he did that on purpose to ensure his message stood out in stark contrast, I don't know. I was never really good at dissecting motives in literature. But the message was as clear as day: the districts comply with the Capitol's demands but underneath there was a growing sense of dissatisfaction. Of unhappiness.

A week later Vickory Hamilton's name had been drawn out of the reaping bowl. He had been called to participate in the 70th hunger games. He lasted only five minutes in the arena; a knife to his throat silencing him forever. The way President Snow would have planned it.

But I never forgot his words. And now, as I stand looking out into the silent and anxious crowd, I cannot help but think about them again. I cannot help but think of the boy who wrote them; who died because of them. And I cannot help but think about my own insubordination, the plan to eat the berries last year in the arena, and what punishment I will be dealt as a result.

"_You should prepare yourself, you know. You might be safe, but they might target the ones you love this year instead..." _

The words had been said six months ago just after the Victory tour, but Haymitch reminded me of them again last night.

"_The easiest target would be Gale. He already has his name in the draw fifty-five times. Of course the crowd would be suspicious... but the Capitol could always blame it on the odds if needed."_

Haymitch had been relentless over the issue.

"_But then again, Gale might actually have a chance at winning the thing... so long as the Gamemakers leave him alone. So maybe they'll target Prim again..."_

It wasn't until Peeta had stepped in and told Haymitch to "leave it" that the anxiety provoking commentary stopped. Not once, however, had I disagreed with him. In fact, not once had Peeta disagreed with him either. Perhaps it was superstition; the fear that speaking aloud might bring the horrible nightmare into reality. Whatever it was, it didn't matter now. Today was the day of Reaping. The day the tributes will be selected to go into the arena. The announcement of death.

_The sun is shining but everything is grey._

_That's what it's like on reaping day._

My eyes scan the crowd until they find the clump of thirteen year olds. It is there that I find her. Prim; looking as innocent and beautiful as ever in a baby pink cotton dress. Her hair is out and free-flowing, making her look even more angelic than usual. But the strain in her face breaks through the illusion. She looks terrified. Just like Vickory Hamilton did before he made his accent to the lectern. Before he made his condemning speech.

She is standing alone – well, as alone as you can get when thousands of people are being squashed into a small area meant for only hundreds. Nobody wants to touch her. There is no doubt that almost everybody in District 12 loves Prim. Well, what's not to love? But nobody would risk being associated with her on Reaping day. Not when she's the sister of a defiant Victor.

Not when she is my sister.

I wish I could hold her, comfort her. But I can't. Being on stage prevents me from performing such an action. Besides, I don't know if there is anything I could say that would quell her anxiety. The chances have doubled that she will be selected for the games this year. No, probably times that number by fifty as a result of my actions with the berries. And even if I could say something to her, she would be able to see through the lie immediately. Both because I wouldn't be convincing enough in the delivery and because she knows me to well.

It's very difficult to tear my eyes away from her. But I manage. I draw my attention to the right side of the stage where the mayor has just finished giving his speech about Panem's history and has returned to his seat. Any moment now Effie Trinket will trot to the podium to deliver the verdict. To ruin two people's lives forever. No, not just two people. Their families, their friends, everyone... If you die in the arena you're dead. That's it. But if you're a family member of those who die in the hunger games you have to live with that forever; both in mind and on the screen. I think of the Victory Tour and seeing Rue's devastated family.

No, you never get over it.

I feel Peeta's hand slide into mine, gripping my fingers tightly. His palms are slightly sweaty but I've never been more thankful to have him beside me. His presence is about all that's keeping me upright.

"Did you manage to find Gale this morning?" he whispers to me. His breath tickles my ear.

I give a slight shake of my head. "He's avoiding me still." I say. My voice is tight. It sounds strange even to me.

Peeta squeezes my hand a little tighter. "I'm sure he'll come see you before you leave for the games." He says. "He might be little angry at whatever happened the other week but I'm sure he'll get over it." I'm not surprised that Peeta has picked up on the strain between Gale and me the past week. In fact, it must have been obvious to everybody. Even Prim and my mother had asked on separate occasions what had happened. But I maintained my silence. I am still just as confused at Gale's reaction as I was a week ago. So how could I tell anyone about it when I don't understand what truly happened myself?

I ignore the desire to try and find Gale amongst the crowd. He would be standing, roped off, with the other nineteen year olds of District 12. I wonder if he is feeling nervous. He usually is on Reaping day.

_... he will always have something over me unless I go into that arena!_

Remembering his words last week, perhaps he is nervous that he won't be called at all.

"Just remember, the cameras will be constantly cutting to you so make sure you appear to be the love-sick couple you're meant to be." Haymitch reminds us, cutting through my thoughts. He is standing on my left, wearing an over-sized pale yellow jacket and a pair of grey cotton trousers. His hair is tousled. I wonder if he deliberately tries to look his shabbiest on Reaping days. To achieve what purpose I don't know.

At least he doesn't look nearly as drunk as last year, I think.

Haymitch continues, "Also, when the two tributes are announced you will be taken immediately to the train and Effie will bring them there after they have said their goodbyes to their families." Maybe that's why he wasn't as drunk. He wouldn't be mentoring this year. There was no need for him to be blind and oblivious to what was to come. He knew that he would not have to form relationships only to have them squandered in the end. I look down and see the contract curled up in his hands. On the bottom of the paper I can just make out his messy scrawl of a signature, but it is not where it should be if he was planning on being a mentor.

I cannot help but feel instantly annoyed at him. There was a small part of me that had hoped he would revise his decision and come along with us. To help us. To help the tributes.

I want to snap at him, to say something awful about him being incredibly selfish, but I am not given the opportunity. Instead, the moment has arrived.

I watch as Effie adjusts her clothes and hair once she takes her position behind the podium. If I had not known that Effie and Haymitch never spoke to each other outside of the Hunger Games I would have thought they planned matching outfits. Because just like Haymitch's jacket is coloured a pale, mustard yellow so is Effie's hair. And just like Haymitch's cotton pants are grey so is Effie's puffy waistcoat. Both pieces seem to clash horribly with her verdant head-piece. But I'm sure in the Capitol her outfit is to die for. Maybe, unbeknownst to Haymitch, he is actually on trend with Capitol fashion at the moment.

The thought is shocking.

Effie opens with her signature, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favour!" before launching into an enthusiastic recount of last year's "amazing games" and how much of an honour it was for her to mentor Peeta and myself. I can hear Haymitch beside me bristle and mumble something under his breath at the word 'mentor' but he manages to pull it together and put on a veiled face when the cameras shift our way. "And to think, here I was aching to be bumped up to a better district." Effie continues in the background. "But who would have thought last year that District 12 would have two tributes ranked in the _'Most Beloved Tributes of All Time' _top ten in _Capitol_ _Magazine_ this year? It's outstanding."

The cameras again swing our way to capture a close up of Peeta and I. If I had my way I wouldn't acknowledge them. Instead I would stand as silent and unyielding as a stone, not giving the Capitol the opportunity to spin some ludicrous story about us basking in our glory or being blissfully happy in our love for each other. Or worse, that we condone the Reaping Day and everything it stands for. But I cannot help but think of Haymitch's words a week ago and what it might mean for our tributes this year if we do not give them every opportunity to gain sponsors. If we do not give them every opportunity to survive.

"_... One of the most important jobs of a mentor is to get sponsors for your tribute. And I hardly think that'll be a problem for you. They'll probably sponsor your tribute simply because they are yours. The favoured Golden couple."_

Well, with the way I'm thinking we won't be the favoured couple for much longer.

So instead I swallow hard and try my best to put on a humble, happy face. I must be doing a terrible job, however, because when I look up I see Peeta's face plastered on the giant television screen, being streamed live across Panem, not mine. He looks...happy and humble... just how I pictured myself looking. Upon reflection, however, I'm really not at all surprised. Peeta's ability to give the Capitol what they want when it is needed is almost legendary. If anything is surprising it's that I thought I would need to give them a performance with Peeta beside me.

The cameras cut back to Effie and I instantly feel a bubble of apprehension register in the depths of my stomach. In fact, I feel a bubble of apprehension register throughout my entire body. It is time for the drawing. I feel as though I could faint right off the stage.

Peeta wraps his arm around me and I wonder if he can feel how nervous I am. I suppose so. It's probably radiating from me.

"I've got you." He says. He doesn't look at me however. He is too focussed on Effie for that. But just having the weight around my waist, like an anchor securing me to reality, is a constant reminder of his presence. It doesn't alleviate my fears and anxiety but it is a reassurance. A comfort. I wish I could whisper a quick "thank you" but there is no time for that. Effie has already said her customary "Ladies first!" and has her hand digging around in the glass ball. There must be thousands of slips of paper with girl's names on them but the mental image of Prim's name occupying all of them cannot leave me alone. The image sends a shoot of stabbing pain through me.

It seems to take forever. Almost as if Effie's hand swirling around in the ball is happening in slow motion. It's excruciating. But I'm unsure of whether I want it to speed up or to slow down even further. I suppose it depends on the outcome.

The crowd is silent. And as Effie crosses back to the podium and smooths out the piece of folded paper caught in her hand it is clear that everyone present in the square is just as apprehensive as I am. Their faces are pale and drawn, and many of the mothers and younger children have started crying already. But there is no sound coming from them, only tears rolling down their faces. It's almost as if they are too fearful to make a sound. As if they worry that if they are caught disrupting the Reaping ceremony it may lead to dire consequences for them or their loved ones. Perhaps it might. The Capitol, after all, does not make allowances for breaking the rules. And while remaining silent throughout the Reaping is not a concrete rule, everyone this year was told to keep their mouths shut as they entered the square.

To me the request meant only one thing: something unusual was about to happen today. And the Peacekeepers were told about it. No, warned about it. In the back of my mind I have my suspicions of what that might entail... but I'm too fearful to even contemplate them. So I push them down. Repress them. Ignore them. And for a few moments it's almost as if I have no idea at all.

But it seems as though I cannot repress them for much longer. In fact, I can no longer repress them at all. Because when Effie goes to read the name of this year's female tribute she almost sounds apologetic and it causes my heart to jackhammer. I know instantly that she's apologising to me. And I know, before she even reads the name out loud, that it will be Prim.

"This has never happened before," Effie says into the microphone. She has the slip of paper rolled out in her hand and is continuing to read it, as if she cannot believe it herself. "Twice in a row the girl reaped to be tribute this year is... Primrose Everdeen."

I can feel Peeta pull me closer towards him but it is only when I feel my body slam against his that I realise my feet have given out beneath me.

_Primrose Everdeen._

My sister. The sweet, innocent flower of district 12 going into the arena. To do battle. To fight to the death.

... To die.

Like last year I feel as though the ability to inhale and exhale has abandoned me. I feel as though I cannot breathe. I cannot speak. I cannot do anything but stare numbly as Prim slowly starts to walk towards the stage. She looks shocked, but surprisingly composed. Almost as if she had known that this would be a likely possibility. Well, I suppose it was. Distantly I hear someone screaming. I think it might be me. I wouldn't be surprised if it is me. But when I look out into the crowd I realise that my mother is screaming Prim's name and is trying desperately to claw her way out of Mrs Hawthorne's firm grip around her. I've never heard my mother sound so broken... even after the death of my father.

I'm sure there will be people in the Capitol who are surprised by my mother's reaction, especially in contrast to last year when she stood stoic and still with only a single tear rolling down her cheek when I volunteered for the arena. But I understand the difference. That difference, after all, is the reason I volunteered for the arena in the first place. Prim is not a hunter. Heck, she is not even a competitive person. She is a baby in our eyes. My baby sister. My mother's baby girl. And a baby should never be put into dangerous situations; defenceless. A baby should be protected.

But nobody could protect Prim this year. Nobody would volunteer to go in her stead.

When Prim reaches the stage Effie takes her hand. "Well aren't you a pretty little thing." She says. "Soft blonde hair, a petite face, and blue eyes. I'm sure you'll be getting a lot of sponsors." It's almost odd to hear Effie sound so... normal... on Reaping day. But I can tell that she's doing her best to help Prim. Possibly because this is the first year that she knows, even if it's by association, one of the tributes from District 12. It must be a different experience for her. I can tell that she's struggling with it.

When Effie asks for volunteers no one steps forward. District 12's silence could be Prim's death sentence. But I do not blame them for it. I blame the Capitol. I blame President Snow, because it's as clear as day that he planned for this to happen. And when Effie puts her hand into the ball containing the boys' names that sentiment is only confirmed.

"And the boy tribute for this year's Quater Qwell Hunger Games," Effie begins. "Is Gale Hawthorne."

In the background I can hear the eruption of the crowd when Gale's name is called. It seems as though collectively District 12 has decided to no longer remain silent. People are calling for answers, saying that the whole process is rigged... that it's virtually impossible for the two people closest to me to have been reaped. Others are shouting their surprise at President Snow, saying they had no idea he could do something so contrived and controlling. The atmosphere in the square has turned hostile and aggressive. And despite not being chosen to go into the arena themselves, nobody seems relieved once Gale's name is called.

Nobody, that is, besides me. The instant Gale's name is called I feel as though I can breathe again. I feel as though the pressure in my chest has lessened. I feel reassured. I feel hopeful. And the first thought that pops in my head is, "oh thank god." Because I know that Gale will protect Prim. I know that he would do anything to ensure her survival. I now know that no longer is this a death sentence for Prim... she might survive. She might come back to me. And even though a small part of me feels guilty for thinking such things when I would have given anything for Gale's name not to be drawn a day ago... I cannot help it. And I would not change it.

As Gale walks up to the stage I watch as Prim breaks down, crying. I wish she wouldn't... just because I know how important it is not to be marked as a weakling. Especially when she already has a target on her back just for being my sister. She needs to act strong, to convince the other tributes that she would make a valuable ally. But then that's not in Prim's nature. She doesn't mask her emotions; she expresses them.

Gale, on the other hand, looks fiercely determined. He doesn't even acknowledge Effie, who is trying to engage him in a conversation. Instead he goes and stands beside Prim. But he doesn't touch her. And I'm thankful for that, too. While everyone believes that Gale is Prim's cousin, as a result of my relationship with Peeta last year in the arena, there would be no reason to already show a strong alliance between the two of them. That could, after all, come back to hurt them. And that's another reason why I'm glad Gale is going to be in the arena with Prim. Not only is he strong and not only does he know how to hunt... he's also smart. He's a tactician. He might not have Peeta's ability with words or my ability with a bow... but he knows how to set a trap. Better than anyone I know. And that could be the difference between life and death for Prim in the arena.

I am only vaguely aware of the anthem of Panem playing, just like I am only vaguely aware of Peeta's arms still being encircled around me. There's only one thing that I can concentrate on. And, surprisingly, that's not Prim or Gale. Instead, it's Haymitch.

I watch as Haymitch rips up the contract in his hands. I know that he sees me watching him but we don't say anything to each other. We simply watch as the shredded pieces of paper fall to the stage floor, littering the ground.

Again, I am reminded of Vickory Hamilton. I am reminded both of his horrible death and of his condemning poem.

_The sun is shining but everything is grey._

_That's what it's like on Reaping Day._

Truer words have never been spoken.

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><p><strong>NOTE: <strong>Firstly I just want to alleviate any concerns people may have about the shipping of this story. To address one reviewer specifically, if you despise Gale I really wouldn't recommend this story for you. Similarly, if you despise Peeta this story is equally not for you. I like to give both boys the opportunity to prove themselves. Ultimately this story is about a love triangle... but I have indicated the main pairing when I posted up the initial summary for this story (*hint hint*). Also, you now know who will be going into the arena, but please do not think that this is a Gale/Prim story... because it's not. Finally, regarding when I update, I really do try and update within two weeks of the last post. So far I've been lucky and I've been updating weekly... but some weeks that will extend to two. I do apologise but sometimes university needs to be prioritised – sometimes! ;) I hope that addresses all the questions!

**Please Review!**


	4. Ominous Symbolism

**NOTE: **Once again I would like to thank everyone who reviewed the last chapter. While I don't necessarily write for reviews, they certainly do motivate me to continue and update sooner. So thankyou: pupulupk, danielj, Ellenka (for all of your reviews), CrimsonAngels, Lorelei Eve, Fanpire109, xAubex, mrspatrickdempsey, Ellou c, mirrorcode, MadiGee23, Gale'sgirl23, xAishiteruAlwaysx, and marianasgirl. And thank you everyone who added me to their author alerts and favourites lists! I'm overwhelmed by the support for this story.

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><p><strong>Chapter Four: Ominous Symbolism<strong>

When I was twelve years old I remember coming home from school to find an injured baby bird wrapped up in one of my old jumpers sitting on the kitchen table. It looked on the brink of death, with its scratched up body and its skeletal form. It barely made a sound, even in breath. And I knew that the poor bird would die. I guess you could say I've always been a realist.

I remember fighting the urge to take the bird in my hands and ending the poor little thing's life there and then. After all, that would have been the most humane thing to do. But I couldn't. There could only be one explanation for why the bird was in our kitchen in the first place. There was only one person who would even think of trying to save it. Only one person who would actually try.

Prim.

Sure enough, as soon as her name had entered my mind she came into the room holding a small syringe in her hand. It was full of some sort of murky liquid. When she noticed me standing in the doorway her expression broke out into a hopeful grin.

"Katniss!" she had said, in her squeaky eight-year old voice. "We found a bird and it's sick. I'm going to save it." It was not the first time she had adopted some wounded animal that she had stumbled upon. It wouldn't be her last either. In fact, almost weekly I would come home from school to find Prim tending to some sick and scrawny creature. She had a success rate of about twenty percent... but it never dissuaded her. It only seemed to intensify her passion for saving things.

I had watched as Prim delicately scooped the baby bird into her arms and placed the syringe into its mouth, trying to force the liquid down. She succeeded and, turning to me, gave me one of her brilliant smiles that seemed to radiate her pleasure with the small victory.

"I think this one is going to make it." She had said, hugging the bird close to her chest as if she could breathe life into the little thing with her proximity. "What do you think, Katniss?"

'_I think the bird is going to die'_ I answered in my head, but I was saved from having to speak the thought out loud by the timely arrival of our mother. She had a few torn pieces of old cloth and bandages in her hand. I could not help but think of the waste. Especially on a bird that was destined to die. But I knew my mother would not deny Prim... not when she was so hopeful and determined to save the animal. And I must admit, I would not have denied her either... even if it was wasteful.

Prim immediately got to work. She had taken out a small, but sturdy, stick out of her back pocket and stretched out the bird's mangled right leg. I watched as Prim's expression mirrored the bird's when it cried out in pain with the sudden movement. "Shhh," She softly cooed, tears springing to her eyes. "This will make it better, I promise." She then proceeded to tape the stick to the little bird's leg by wrapping cloth around it. "She has a broken leg," Prim told me, answering my confused expression. "This will stop him from moving it and injuring it further."

I could have watched her all afternoon, tending to the little bird. It was incredibly fascinating seeing her in her element; with such confidence. But I didn't. I couldn't watch her disappointment when the bird died. Anyway, my mother was always better at handling those situations. So instead I went off to hunt, knowing that when I returned I would be burying the bird with Prim watching on, crying away her sadness.

But that's not what happened. To my surprise the little bird managed to survive in my absence. It still looked at death's door when I had walked into the kitchen with a handful of strawberries in my right hand and a dead rabbit (to Prim's dismay) in my left, but as the days wore on it slowly returned to the land of the living. Prim hardly ever left its side during that time. And within three weeks the little bird was ready to go back into the wild. Well, Prim had wanted to keep it... but I had insisted that we could not support another mouth in this family. Not even one so small.

I had expected Prim to cry the day the bird flew away. But she didn't. Instead, she turned to me and said, "Let's go find another one." I had no time to go with her, however, as I needed to go hunt. But my mother went with her. And while she was off saving another little life I was in the bushes with Gale killing one. Killing for survival, yes, but killing nonetheless.

We couldn't be any more different.

"Well, she's kind."

"Such kindness could get her killed in the arena."

"She's small so she could climb trees like Rue did last year."

"That's true. Can she climb though?"

"I'm not sure."

"Well, can she Katniss?"

Haymitch's question pulls me out of the depths of the memory. Can Prim climb trees? I've only seen her climb a couple of trees before and while she was nimble enough to climb half way up the tree, her fear of falling hindered her progress. But she could do it if it was necessary. And in the arena it could be. No, it would be. Besides, what's a fear of falling compared to the fear of death?

I fight back the tears that threaten to appear with that thought.

_Gale will help her_, I think, trying to hold on to something positive… But going down that road hardly helps my fragile emotional state. After all, Gale might help her... but then what? I close my eyes for a second and sigh.

_This is all my fault... _

"Katniss?" Haymitch asks for the second time. Well, it could be the third but I wouldn't know. My concentration has abandoned me. At a time when I need it most it seems.

I tear my eyes away from the train window and focus them on Haymitch's eyebrow-raised face. "She could do it if she had to." I tell him. My throat is tight. It barely sounds like me.

Peeta throws me a sympathetic glance but he doesn't do anything more. I understand why. There's no time to discuss the horrible situation we've been dealt. That would be a waste. Every waking moment should be spent trying to bring both Prim and Gale out of the arena. Alive. Strategising was the only useful thing to do right now. The only problem with that strategy, however, was my complete inability to process information and make any real contribution. Which makes little sense, I know, especially since no one else knows Prim or Gale better than I.

"That would help her." Haymitch says, nodding his head. "What else has she got?" His elbows are propped up on the table and he is looking at me intently. He does not say '_pull it together or we won't be able to pull them out_' but he does not need to. It's written plainly on his face. It's enough to force me to try and salvage together the fragmented pieces of my scattered brain.

The image of a broken bird being resurrected flashes through my mind.

"Well you know she's amazing at healing animals."

Haymitch rolls his eyes. "I mean helpful skills. Things that will keep her alive."

I instantly get annoyed at him. "I meant that she can heal people too. She could help herself if something happened." I snap. Suddenly I feel on the verge of tears again. Prim's ability to heal is her only real skill that could help her in the arena. She doesn't know how to protect herself in any shape or form. She has never had to throw a knife or handle a bow. She's never even had to start a fire... my mother or I have always performed that duty. I've protected her in every way I could over the past five years since our father's death. The irony now, or course, is that by doing so – by protecting her – I may have written her death sentence.

When Peeta speaks his tone is gentle. He must know that I'm on the cusp of losing it completely. "True. So there's value in that skill," he says. I cannot help but think that he's trying to placate me. "Perhaps we should think about marketing her as a valuable ally for that reason then? I mean who wouldn't want to have someone who could help you should you be dealt an unfortunate blow?" The strategy could work... if we angle it right. It's a slim chance. But it's better than nothing. It might be all we have.

I feel an instant rush of gratitude towards Peeta. I nod my head in agreement, thankful that he is here. He gives me a small smile in return. "She'll also have Gale." I add. "And -"

"Yes she will already have Gale," Haymitch interrupts. "But we need the other tributes to think that there's potential value in keeping her alive. You know..." He suddenly looks uncomfortable. "...in case Gale doesn't make it."

"Or if they get split up for whatever reason." Peeta points out quickly, looking at my horrified face.

_... in case Gale doesn't make it._

It's only five words but they seem to linger on for eternity as they mull around in the back of my mind.

_... in case Gale doesn't make it._

Funny, in the three hours that we've been sitting on the train waiting for Prim and Gale to arrive I never thought about that possibility. In fact, even when Effie called out his name the idea of Gale not coming home never did cross my mind. I only thought of Prim... and ensuring her survival. Why was that?

_Because if anyone can survive this it would be Gale,_ I think. He has the survival skills necessary for the task. He also has the resolve. He could do it. Prim, on the other hand, could not survive without him there. Still, now that Haymitch has blatantly brought up the possibility of Gale dying in the arena the doubt has started to creep in. I feel it as it registers in the pit of my stomach and as it progressively moves to every part of my body.

_... in case Gale doesn't make it._

But he has to.

"Katniss, listen." Haymitch tells me firmly. "I agree with you that Gale has a better chance of surviving this thing... but trust me when I say that as a mentor we need to cover all of the possibilities. We also need to be realistic."

I know that Haymitch is right, but it doesn't stop me from shooting a glare in his direction. Realistic. Okay, I think. I can be realistic. I try to suppress my fears, my sadness, my anger, my doubt and my connection to the whole situation. I try to be objective. It doesn't really work but I manage one sentence that is probably the most realistic any of us have been since the reaping. "Well realistically," I say. "President Snow deliberately picked Gale and Prim to get back at me. So realistically the chances of either of them, even Gale, surviving is minimal at best."

It shocks even me. I hadn't meant for it to sound so... honest. But then again, I guess that's what it was. Honest... blunt...

... Realistic.

The way I usually am.

Haymitch stares at me and I cannot work out if his expression is one of surprise or satisfaction. It's oddly a mixture of both. Peeta's expression, on the other hand, I can read easily. It's full of sympathy.

Nobody says anything for a while. We just sit there looking at each other. I think we're letting the words sink in. Well, that's what I'm doing.

President Snow is the puppet master of the arena. Sure, the head gamemaker dangles a few strings every now and then but ultimately Snow gets exactly what he wants. If he says cut the cord on one of the tributes, the gamemakers do. And, well, why else would he send Prim and Gale into the arena as punishment if it wasn't to cut their cord at one point or another? And there was no way to stop it. Unless...

"Unless the Capitol falls in love with them." I say, breaking the silence.

I watch as a small smile spreads across Peeta's face and as Haymitch nods his head in agreement.

"If the Capitol falls in love with them then it would make it very difficult for President Snow to have a hand in their deaths by some gamemaker design." Peeta sounds hopeful.

"The Capitol citizens would surely be outraged if their favourite tribute died not by misfortune but because it was ordered." I continue to add.

"The sponsors, also, would not like it." Peeta finishes. I smile at him. For the first time it feels like we're making real progress. It feels as though we have a real plan going.

"Being a Capitol favourite does not guarantee that you'll survive," Haymitch reminds us suddenly and I slowly feel my momentary happiness begin to dissipate. But before it manages to dissolve completely he adds, "But it cannot hurt. It does protect you from the gamemakers more, that's true."

There were still many holes in our planning; like how to get both Prim and Gale out alive. Having the Capitol's support might potentially save them from the Gamemakers and President Snow but it stills leaves that issue unresolved. After all, there have been many times in previous years that the Capitol citizens equally loved two tributes, but that didn't mean that both had survived. Also, the issue of keeping Prim and Gale safe from the other tributes still remained. But as Haymitch pointed out when I brought that up to him, we needed to watch the replays of the other District's tributes being reaped before we could plan more details.

So when Effie enters the dining room with Gale and Prim in tow I feel less disheartened then I thought I would. That is until Prim looks up and sees me, and bursts out crying. I quickly rush over and encase her in my arms. "It's okay, little duck." I soothe. "I've got you."

We stand like that for what must be little less than a minute before Effie breaks us apart saying something about a "schedule" and that we're "way, way behind."

Normally I would simply ignore Effie and her schedules - especially in favour of supporting Prim - but I know the importance of tonight's schedule. Looking up at the silver clock on the far right wall I see that Effie is right. We only have thirty minutes to eat supper before mandatory viewing of the recap of the reapings across Panem begins. And considering the viewing would be our first real indication of the tribute's Prim and Gale will be up against in the arena this year, even if it was not mandatory I would ensure that we watch it. So I take Prim's hand in mine and I lead her towards the mahogany dining table in the centre of the room.

I get a little bit of satisfaction as I take note of Effie's surprise when we walk by her. I guess she hadn't expected me to give in so easy without a fight.

"Have this seat Prim." Peeta offers, standing up from his original seat next to mine and moving over one when we get closer. Haymitch is already seated at the head of the table with Gale occupying the seat opposite mine.

I say a quick "thanks" and help Prim into her seat.

When I am seated I take the opportunity to look over and study Gale. He is looking at Effie with a slight scowl on his face as she starts discussing table manners. "I certainly hope that as relations of Katniss you exhibit similar eating decorum." She says as the first course – a creamy mushroom soup – is placed on the table. "Not the savagery of eating behaviour that is usually exhibited from District 12 tributes."

To an outsider he probably looks incredibly composed. His expression, besides the scowl, is completely devoid of any emotion or any indication that he is upset over his current situation. But I know differently. I know him too well to be fooled by the mask. His body posture is too wound up, as if he can't quite relax, and his jaw is clenched too tightly the way it does when he's mulling over something or stressed.

Instead of looking at the soup in front of him he glances at his right hand, and that's when I realise that he is holding something. I cannot quite make out what it is, however. His hand is either too big or the object capturing his attention is too small. Probably both. But it's not long before Gale's grey eyes flicker up to meet mine and he answers my query.

Rolling his hand over I see, laid out on his palm, a small posy flower. I know that I have tears in my eyes, but I cannot help it. The image of little Posy giving her final good luck charm to Gale sends me over the edge.

"This isn't for me," Gale says, surprising me. "She wanted me to give it to you."

Well, I don't know what to say to that.

"Just take it, Katniss." He says it like I have a choice but his actions – leaning over the table and physically putting it in my own hand – suggests otherwise.

I look down at the flower in my hand. It seems so delicate and small. I imagine Posy's little hand picking it off the bush beside their house and carefully carrying it all the way to the Justice Building to say her farewells to Gale. But she wouldn't be carrying just one... not if this was meant for me.

"Yes she also gave me one. It's in my room." Gale says, reading my mind. He gives me a small smile. "Funny, isn't it? They're the only two I didn't send over the cliff in the bush."

Nobody else at the table would know what he is talking about. But I do.

"_...do you know what I do with every flower she has given me the last month? I bring it out here and I squash it. Then I throw it off the cliff like I just did to those rocks."_

"_Wait... what... why?" _

"_Because he will always have something over me unless I go into that arena!"_

The conversation had transpired a little over a week ago but it feels much longer than that. It feels like a lifetime.

"If you could reverse time, knowing everything you do now." By the look in his eye I know he understands that I am referring to his reaping. "Would you still do it? Would you still throw them off the cliff?" I ask, not really knowing the answer I want to hear. The question _'would you still want to go into the arena'_ is inferred but not explicitly said.

Gale doesn't hesitate. "Yes."

I think about his family... about Rory, Vick, Posy and his mother. About what he's leaving behind and what he's risking. "Even though -"

"Yes." This time he says it a little too quickly. He looks at me from behind his dark lashes and I can tell that he realises this too. "Well, I don't know." He corrects after a slight pause. "They were devastated. Posy couldn't stop crying the entire time... neither could Vick. And my mother was trying to hold it all together, I could tell. It was... difficult."

The absent mention of Rory does not escape my notice. I can tell that he's withholding something but I do not push him. Instead I make a mental note to ask him later at a time when we are alone, thinking that perhaps he does not want to bring it up at the table. In front of everyone. In front of Prim.

Beside me I can hear that Peeta and Prim are engaged in a conversation with Effie about Capitol life, or something along those lines. I only make out the words "silverware"... "firewood"... and "puffy couture." It's difficult to establish any kind of connection between those three words. But to the left of me I can tell that Haymitch is listening in to Gale and my conversation with interest.

Gale realises this too because the next thing he says is, "We need to discuss strategy." He is looking at me but somehow it is clear that the 'we' statement is intended to include Haymitch.

Haymitch quirks an eyebrow. "You may want to eat first." He says as second course - grilled beef rumps with peppercorn gravy and garden peas – is placed down on the table in front of us. It looks, and smells, delicious. But neither Gale nor I have even touched the soup from first course. It still sits full and cold on the table where it was initially placed ten minutes ago.

Gale shakes his head. "I'm not hungry."

"That doesn't mean you shouldn't eat." Haymitch tells him, smothering a piece of steak on his fork with pepper sauce before popping it in his mouth.

"Katniss and I don't usually eat before we go hunting." Gale points out.

Haymitch eyes him. "This isn't just hunting, boy."

"Sure it is."

The sense of déjà-vu is overwhelming and I cannot help but think back to the conversation Gale and I had in the Justice Building before I left for the games.

"_Katniss, it's just hunting. You're the best hunter I know."_

_It's not just hunting. They're armed. They think."_

"_You know how to kill."_

"_Not people."_

"_How different could it be, really?"_

Haymitch gives me an incredulous look and I know what he's thinking. I'm thinking the same thing.

... Gale is mentally prepared.

Check.

"Well it's not like I want to go out there and kill people. It's just that if I'm forced to do it to stay alive... then I think I could." Gale elaborates quickly. I wipe the shocked expression from my face, knowing that Gale has mistaken it as an indication of disapproval. I see Haymitch do the same.

"Say something." Gale says. He is looking at me but it is Haymitch who answers.

"That's a healthy attitude, boy. Well, for the arena." Haymitch puts another piece of steak on his fork and between mouthfuls says, "That's strategy number one."

I nod my head in agreement.

The remainder of the meal is eaten in relative silence as everyone tries to work their way through the courses quickly. Effie's constant reminder that we have only "ten minutes"... "eight minutes"... "five minutes"... till the recaps begin certainly helps drive our speed along. I notice that Gale barely eats more than a few mouthfuls of the following courses but I don't really say anything because I'm doing the same.

At exactly five to eight Effie stands up and takes us to the compartment beside the dining room to watch the replays of the District reapings. We watch as one by one names are called and as children slowly walk up to the podium to stand beside their District escort. All the while Haymitch feeds Peeta and me information about each District's mentors. At first I couldn't really understand why. After all, wouldn't it serve a much greater purpose to be solely discussing the tributes rather than add in mentor information? But, as Haymitch points out, the competition is not just in the arena.

We watch as a twelve year old boy is announced as District 4's tribute. But the commentators do not even have the time to repeat his name before a large twenty year old steps forward to volunteer. Similar to what occurred in District's 1 and 2.

"That'll be Finnick Odair's tribute then." Says Haymitch. I hear Effie sigh lovingly behind me at the mention of Finnick's name. I cannot really blame her... when Capitol Magazine had called him _'The Beauty of the Sea'_it wasn't too much of an exaggeration. So that was saying something. "Finnick will be happy. The boy – what's his name again?"

"Harper." Gale replies.

"Yes, Harper looks strong and alright looking."

There was no denying Haymtich's assessment.

"Finnick's tribute usually does quite well." Haymtich informs us.

"Because they join the carers?" Asks Prim, she looks at him with wide blue eyes.

Haymitch shakes his head. "Because Finnick pulls the most sponsors. Joining the carers certainly helps, but when it's only the carers left District 4 tributes certainly get a lot of packages that help them overcome their competitors." He looks pointedly at Peeta and me.

Sponsors equal potential for prolonged life. Got it.

"But it's District 2 who has the highest number of surviving tributes." Gale points out.

"Yes, well, a mentor can only do so much." Replies Haymitch. "And Brutus is also a good mentor. His ruthlessness pays off."

We turn our attention back to the television screen and watch as a fifteen year old girl is reaped from District 7. Nobody volunteers for her. A second later a thirteen year old boy joins her.

"Johanna won't be happy with that lot. Both of them look weak. But then again, Johanna herself feigned hunger and fatigue when she won the 71st Hunger games. It wouldn't be the first time someone has tried to copy her strategy. So don't rule them out. District 7 is the lumber District for the Capitol... if they can do anything it would be wield an axe."

Gale nods, storing away the piece of information.

A twenty year old girl is reaped from District 11 but her half-starved appearance makes her look fourteen. She is quickly joined by a twelve year old boy who cries all the way up to the stage. Haymitch doesn't make many comments about them or the District 11 mentors, except to say that "Chaff could be worse off."

Then, finally, Prim and Gale are called. When the camera zooms in to my face I hear the commentators discuss my relationship with them; that Prim is my sister, Gale my cousin. They do not have the opportunity to say anything more, however, as the next second the picture changes and suddenly Present Snow is addressing all of Panem.

"Hello everyone." He greets. His voice is silky smooth and his mouth is curved up into a controlled smile. I'm sure to those in the Capitol he looks the picture of aristocratic power with his gold necklaces and his rich purple over-coat, but to me he looks pompous. Arrogant. Self-indulgent. A symbol of the Capitol, true, but a symbol that also represents everything that is wrong with Panem. A place where the rich thrive while the poor starve in muddy ditches.

"So there we have it. The tributes for this year's 75th Quarter Quell Hunger Games." He pauses for dramatic effect, flashing straight, perfect teeth. "I'm sure that everyone will agree with me that this year looks to be a very promising show indeed." He reaches for something off camera. When he returns he has a red rose in his hand. And I watch, my stomach sinking, as he plucks each petal one by one. It's done so absent-mindedly that I'm sure many people would miss the action. Well, it would mean nothing to them. But it means everything to me.

He looks directly at the camera, a certain gleam evident in his eyes. "And remember tributes, may the odds be _ever_ in your favour."

The television screen goes black but all I can see is a broken, red rose.

Red.

The colour of blood.

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><p><strong>Please Review!<strong>


	5. Sometimes Progression Hurts

NOTE: Thank you everyone who reviewed last chapter: pupulupk, Fanpire109, mirrorcode, Alexa, KMloveya, Ellenka, Lucky 13, Lorelei Eve, mrspatrickdempsey, danielj, Gale'sgirl23, Untoldlies, PandK4ever, Lyoto Machida, anon, julz12, Madame BonBons, and UlravioletSpark. Also to those who have added me on their author alerts and favourites lists, I thank you as well.

I'm really trying to push this story forward. I hope it doesn't feel rushed in any way. Anyway, on to the chapter!

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><p><strong>Chapter Five: Sometimes Progression Hurts<strong>

_Everywhere there is blood. It clings to the walls and pools onto the ground in waves. It is a grotesque image; one that you think could only plague children's nightmares. Only I am not a child anymore, and this doesn't feel like I am caught within a horrible dream. It feels too real for that. _

_I take one step forward and nearly slip as my bare feet make contact with the blood splattered tiles. However the site and feeling don't repulse me. The image of Cato being torn apart by the mutant mutts in the arena last year flashes through my mind. This feels tame in comparison. What does make me feel slightly nauseated, however, is the ever-pressing feeling of foreboding. It is like a dark blanket of threatening apprehension that promises to consume me and whispers 'this is your fault' as it does so. And I cannot shake the feeling that it is right... that whatever is to come really is my fault. _

_There is no question about where I need to go. The blood trail leads directly from my room out into the corridor. So I follow it, leaving bloodied footprints in my wake. _

_As I make my way down the corridor I hear somebody crying. No, it's more than that. They are wailing. And screaming. It's a guttural kind of sound. _

_What are they screaming?_

_I strain my hearing and manage to catch a name. It's enough to almost stop my heart. _

_Gale. _

_I instantly start running, the foreboding feeling intensifying with every step I take. I don't know why his name has been called or who said it... but such a heart-wrenching cry could only mean one thing..._

"_Gale!" I shout. "Gale!" _

_The blood trail leads me to a closed door. Unlike all the other doors in the Capitol building which are painted a cool silver this one is painted white. It contrasts horribly with the blood stains on the wall around it. I grasp the handle, feeling the sticky blood slide between my fingers. Giving me a hand shake. Everywhere, it seems, there is blood._

_Gale's blood._

_I turn the handle and open the door. _

_What greets me, however, is totally unexpected. Even though he has his back to me I know that it is not Gale in the room, but Peeta. His hands are balled-up in his pockets and he is staring at something in front of him. At what, I cannot tell. There seems to be nothing else in the cavernous room besides the two of us. He has a white shirt on that seems to be five sizes too big for him. It's practically hanging off him, and it makes him look like a little boy... not the man who exited the arena with me only a year ago. _

_But thankfully there is no blood. Not in the room. Not on him. It's almost like there had been no blood at all. Except for the sticky reminder on my hands and feet. _

_... Maybe that is why the ominous feeling has not dissipated. _

"_Peeta?" I ask, taking two steps towards him. My voice sounds hesitant and uncertain. Nothing is making much sense anymore. _

_He doesn't turn around right away; instead he lingers... staring at something unseen for a few minutes before acknowledging me. Well, if you could call it an acknowledgement. He shifts his feet from one to the other and murmurs something that doesn't quite reach me. He is still looking ahead at something undistinguishable. _

"_Peeta?" I try again. _

_This time he does turn around. Slowly. And the first thing I notice is the dark stain that is spread across the front of his shirt making it no longer white but red. _

_Blood. _

_His blood. _

_A lot of his blood._

_In the short time it takes me to reach him he has already collapsed to the floor. It doesn't happen in slow motion like the Capitol movies depict... it happens very quickly. Too quickly. About the time it takes for an arrow to find its mark. In a second. No, a fraction of a second. _

"_Peeta?" I kneel beside him, taking his hand in mine. It feels cold._

"_Katniss," He whispers. I watch, horrified, as blood pools at the junction of his lips. "You came." He sounds so surprised._

"_What do you mean? Of course I'd come." I say back to him, wiping away the blood running down his chin with the back of my hand. _

"_No I mean..." He coughs, splattering more blood. "... you noticed." The comment catches me off guard. When I don't say anything for a second he sighs and continues, "I feel so tired." His face is so pale that it's almost ghostly. It reminds me of all of the men, women and children who would come to my mother in District 12 searching for help but finding only death. Starvation is difficult to cure when there's no food around._

"_Shhh," I soothe. "It's alright. I can fix this." I don't know if I can... but all I know is that I have to try. I lift up his blood soaked shirt expecting to find some hideous injury. But I don't. There's nothing there but bare chest. No gushing wound, no pierced skin. Nothing. _

"_Peeta -"_

"_I was to give this to you when you came." He interrupts me. From behind his thick lashes his eyes look almost apologetic. "I don't want to but..."_

_He pulls out a single red rose. _

_A red rose dripping with his blood._

_My throat constricts. _

_Unlike in my dreams where Prim is dying, Peeta doesn't say that this is my fault. But he doesn't need to. The rose says it all._

"_Peeta I'm so..." But I stop when I realise that Peeta's eyes do not hold any life in them anymore. He's gone. _

_Just like that. _

_Just how it happens in real life. Like Rue... like Foxface... like Clove... like Marvel. One minute they're present, the next they're not. _

_Lifeless. _

"Katniss?"

_I scream._

"Katniss?"

I bolt upright. Haymitch is waving a hand in front of my face and is murmuring something that sounds an awful lot like "about time you got up". His voice is rough and his breath smells strongly of bourbon. It's almost enough to put me back to sleep.

"Forget your nightmares, Sweetheart. We have work to do." He goes into my closet, starts pushing some buttons in a random fashion and programs my outfit for the day. It's a rich blue dress that shimmers slightly in the light. It's one of Cinna's creations. He throws it unceremoniously onto the bed. "Get changed. We're waiting for you down in the lobby." He's obviously not in a very good mood, which is fine by me because I'm not in a very good mood either.

It takes me less than ten minutes to brush my teeth, shower and be presentable enough to go down to the foyer. And while I am relieved at my speediness, the disappointment I feel when I realise that the shower has not washed away the ruminants of my nightmare is overwhelming. The feeling of cold foreboding and unmistakable fear still lingers on in the back of my mind like an unwanted houseguest. And I can still picture Peeta, with his own blood pooled around him, looking ashen faced and lifeless whenever I close my eyes. So I make a pact with myself to keep my eyes open for as long as possible.

It doesn't really work. I barely last a minute before I am forced to blink. And even though my eyes shut for only a fraction of a second, there he is – Peeta – dying all over again.

"What's wrong with you?" asks Haymitch as I walk into the foyer. The scowl on his face is quite disapproving.

"Nothing." I shoot back automatically. "What's wrong with you?" I mimic his expression.

"You sleeping in this morning, that's what." He replies shortly. I notice that he has his hands on his hips which is never a good sign. I look around for Peeta trying to find some support but he's not there. I blink, see him sprawled again on the cold floor, and start to get a bit panicky.

"Where's Peeta?" I ask quickly, ignoring Haymitch's last comment. I am relieved to hear that my voice does not give away my frenzied state.

"He left with Effie about five minutes ago. They're at the mentor control room. Somewhere we're supposed to be already." By the time I've really processed what he said and let the relief set in that Peeta is alright, Haymitch has already started walking towards one of the many corridors that connects with the foyer room. I assume it's one that leads to the so-called mentor control room.

"And what about Gale and Prim?" I ask as I catch up with him. "Have they already left with the prep team?"

Haymitch doesn't even turn around; instead he keeps walking briskly and between strides manages to growl out, "Cinna and Portia came and picked them up this morning at 8am." When I don't reply quickly enough he takes his opportunity and continues, "at least one of us is making sure they are well equipped to make it out of the arena alive."

It is a low blow. So low that I automatically stop moving and stand stationary in the corridor looking dumbfounded. Haymitch must realise this because a second later he stops walking, turns around and faces me. The expression on his face has changed. No longer does it seem stern and annoyed... it seems softer, almost apologetic.

Almost.

"Look Sweetheart..." He begins.

"Don't worry about it." I interrupt and snap quickly. I am not in the mood for an apology. What was said was said. He cannot take it back.

"I'm not going to apologise if that's what you think." Well, there goes that theory. "You should have been there this morning. Your tributes need you. These ones especially."

"And you think I don't know that?" I ask him, my anger flaring. "They're all I can think about. Dream about!"

"Really?" Haymitch has one eyebrow raised. It makes me want to hit him. "Because that's not what I heard twenty minutes ago when I went to get your sorry arse up."

The image of a bloodied door-handle flashes through my mind. "You don't know what you're talking about." I say.

"No?" I watch as he takes a small flask out of his back pocket and as he takes a swig. Smelling his breath this morning I assume that the liquid inside is bourbon. "Having nightmares about Peeta aren't you?" He takes a few more big gulps before returning the flask to its home in his back pocket. "Do I need to remind you that it's not Peeta going into the arena? Do I need to remind you who is?"

"You're horrible when you're drunk." I say, not rising to his bait any longer even though every inch of me wants to. I go to move past him but he grabs my arm forcefully and swings me around so that our faces are mere inches from one another.

"They both can't make it out alive you know." He says, spraying spit all over me. His eyes are bloodshot, I realise. And he looks a bit clammy. "You'll need to choose between them. It always ends up that way. You can't avoid it." I want to slap him. In fact, I think I almost do but a second later Effie manages to pull us apart. I don't know where she came from.

"Not again Haymitch." She says, her tone disapproving. She has her hands wrapped around his forearms. At first I think she must be holding him back to keep him away from me, but then I realise that she's just trying to hold him upright. "Why must this always happen? Every year embarrassing us all. It's so... plebeian." Haymitch is almost catatonic, I notice. It's the worst I've seen him since he drunkenly fell of the Reaping stage last year.

Effie turns her attention to me. "I'm sorry you had to deal with this Katniss before your big, big day meeting all of the other mentors." I don't really know why she's apologising, but I nod my head anyway. I keep staring at Haymitch. He's looking back at me blankly through his drunken haze. That last drink definitely sent him over the edge, it seems. Serves him right. "He does this every year the day the mentors get their tour around the mentor control stations. It's most unbecoming." Effie is still talking. "I try to hide all of the alcohol but he always manages to get his hands on some. The drunken fool."

My pity for Haymitch would come later, I'm sure. Right now, however, I couldn't care less if he drunkenly decided to go jump of the Training Centre tower.

"... and I keep telling those Avox's to keep an eye on him." Strangely, Effie is still talking. "But do they? No. Well, I suppose I shouldn't expect those criminals to do what I tell them now should -"

"Effie, aren't you meant to be with Peeta?" I interrupt her before I want to slap her too. By this stage Haymitch has fallen asleep, well unconscious, in a heap on the floor.

"I came back to see what was holding you. I'm not supposed to stay for the mentor tour being an escort and all. I have other important duties to do." She fixes her slightly off-centre wig with one hand while she pats Haymitch's head with the other. I don't think I'll ever truly understand their obscure relationship. "But you really must get to the meeting... you're already late." I expect her to start telling me off for my tardiness, but instead she says, "But you really did need the sleep. You'll be no help to this year's tributes if you cannot stand on your own two feet." Her eyes flicker to Haymitch but she doesn't say anything more.

She doesn't really need to.

"I don't know where the room is." I tell her after a slightly awkward pause.

"Well of course you don't." She exclaims. "Go straight down this corridor, turn left then turn right, then left again... and then go through the door labelled 'mentors'." She gives me a small smile and points down the corridor. "Well, off you go now! Chop Chop."

I nod my head and take one last look at the crumbled heap of my own mentor. I notice that the flask in his back pocket has come free and is rolling around the floor near my feet. I pick it up and pocket it. It feels heavy. Really heavy.

That's when the pity for Haymitch Abernathy rolls in.

* * *

><p>When I open the door to the mentor control room I hear a person say in a dead-pan voice, "Oh, finally!" I track the voice to a young female with wide-set brown eyes and dark brown hair. Johanna Masson. I recognise her immediately. She's one of the Victors that consistently remain in the top five favourites list in <em>Capitol Magazine<em>. She's known to be sarcastic, difficult, and during the 71st Hunger Games of which she participated and won she became known as having a wicked ability to murder.

And she's standing half-naked next to Peeta.

Great.

"Miss Everdeen," A voice to my left calls for my attention. I answer it and look upon a middle-aged man dressed in a ridiculous orange and lilac suit. His arms are folded behind his back and he is wearing a look of impatience. "Nice of you to join us. Can we start the tour now?"

I assume that the question is rhetorical.

It is.

"Now everyone if you follow me we've made a few changes this year that we need to take a look at." He seems to be our tour guide for the day. "Come this way..."

We follow him around for the next hour as he points out little things that he considers "important changes that we ought to know about". I cannot really remember much of what is said. In fact, reflecting upon it now I can only remember something about pushing red buttons and not pushing green ones... which doesn't really make any sense given that it's usually the opposite back in District 12 and everywhere else I've been. Maybe I heard wrong...

Peeta, however, seemed to be taking it all in during that hour. His attention was completely captured by the presentation going on around him. He even had a little note-pad that he was scribbling things into whenever he thought an important point was raised. In the back of my mind a little voice was saying '_You should be paying attention too'_ but every time I tried to focus on what was going on around me my attention would simply divert back to Peeta. I don't know why, maybe I was checking to see if he was still alive; that he wasn't on the floor bleeding to death with an injury that was never there. The number of times I thought I saw his chest not move upon expiration was fifteen. I counted.

The fact that he was wearing a white shirt that was similar to the one he wore in my nightmare didn't help matters either. It seemed to make me more edgy and more worried that it was a premonition I had this morning, not a nightmare. Not that I believe in any of that supernatural sort of stuff. I guess the white shirt was more of a constant reminder. Maybe it reminded me of his fragility... that he wasn't untouchable and out of danger simply because he wasn't going into the arena.

I guess while Snow is in charge of Panem and given our discretion last year with the berries, we're always in danger.

The thought is sobering.

"Each of the two District mentors have their own unique space within their own District station." The man somehow manages to draw my attention long enough to keep me focused on what he is saying. He seems to be pointing to a small room that has the label 'District 7' in big letters above the door. I follow everyone as they enter District 7's mentor station and notice that the room is actually deceptively larger then what I first thought. "See here," We all manage to get a look at what he was talking about. It seems to be some sort of glass panel between two desks. "This here can go up and down depending on how your tributes are managing together. If they're in an alliance and they want to work together... then you can push this button here," he does so "and the glass divide will slide down so that both of the mentors can communicate and strategise together. Should your tributes not get along and not want any strategy discussed with the other persons mentor then you simply push the button again and the divide comes back up and your other District mentor can no longer hear you." I cannot really work out the benefit of such a contraption, but the other mentors are nodding their heads enthusiastically as if very pleased with this new addition so it must be an improvement of some sort.

"Also, have a look here," the man points to two headsets resting against the sides of the tables. "These are your headsets. They're what you'll be using to communicate with your mentors. Now remember, this new addition is because of the Quarter Qwell and it has its restrictions. You will only be able to use them during the hours of 10am till 2pm... so I guess you'll have to come up with some sort of strategy to make that work. The tributes will be implanted with small headpieces underneath the skin next to their ear so when 10am comes you should just be able to talk to them and they'll be able to hear you."

"And no other tribute will be able to hear, right?" A mentor asks over my shoulder. I don't even need to turn around to know who they are. Their famous deep, dangerous voice gives them away. Brutus. Perhaps the most notoriously ruthless Victor in the history of the Hunger Games. Punters had him winning his Hunger Games from the very moment he volunteered to go into the arena.

"That's right. Only the tribute that you are talking to will be able to hear what you're saying."

"And what about the audience and the sponsors? Will they be able to hear?" Brutus continues to ask. His voice is very nearly toneless.

"No they will not. The reason for this is because as mentors you should be able to strategise with your tributes without the sponsors knowing every piece of information."

"Yeah, and I bet we'll be doing more work because of it." Another mentor says, rolling his eyes. A couple of the other mentors laugh at this statement.

"Chaff, don't give them ideas." That was Finnick Odair. I watch as his sea green eyes twinkle with mirth as he claps the older man on the shoulder. They seem to get on quite well. I wonder if they have some sort of an alliance. When I think about the Districts they represent, however, that thought quickly evaporates. A District 4 tribute in an alliance with a District 11 tribute?

People in the Capitol call that tribute suicide.

"Well," The man organising the tour says. "Yes, you will need to do more interviews because of it." He seems hesitant, but the mentors seem happy with this exchange. I understand why... more interviews mean more opportunity to associate themselves with their tribute and gather more sponsors. I think of Peeta and how good he is at manipulating the audience in his interviews. A feeling of gratitude and something else suddenly consumes me.

The tour goes on late into the afternoon and it is only when an announcement comes over the intercom saying that "the Tribute Parade will be starting in thirty minutes" does it come to an abrupt end.

"You may enter this room and your District stations whenever you feel like it from now until the Games are over, so start familiarising yourself with the new additions. Remember, your aptitude and skill in this area may be the thing that saves your tribute." The middle-aged man says it all so quickly that I am unsure if I heard it all right. He also doesn't bother saying goodbye; instead he quickly turns on his heel and walks briskly out of the room. Maybe he's in a hurry to grab a good seat at the parade.

"You had better familiarise yourself with those buttons, Johanna, because your tributes this year need all the help they can get by the look of them!"

"Why Odair, you should know more than anyone that there are older and wealthier buttons that need to be more _familiarised_ with."

I watch and listen as the other mentors banter with one another and am surprised at how light-hearted some of them can be given the life-saving responsibilities they have. I wonder if this is what you become after years of mentoring and trying to save children that never make it back out of the arena alive. Do you become desensitised to it all? I think about Haymitch... No, not everyone becomes desensitised to it.

"Oie Peeta, tell your mentor Haymitch that next time he's not to drink without me! Got it?" says Chaff. He walks out of the mentor control room and into the corridor. He doesn't bother waiting for a reply.

Maybe they all have their own unique coping mechanisms.

I look at Peeta. He isn't looking at me; instead he is watching Johanna and Finnick as they follow Chaff out the door. He looks... contemplative.

Maybe I need to start working on my own.

* * *

><p>"How did they look before you left?" Cinna looks at me but doesn't answer my question. Well, I suppose it's an answer in itself. It says '<em>wait and see.<em>' But I am impatient and nervous so I turn to Portia and ask her the same question. She only looks at Cinna and doesn't say anything either.

I suppose they're keeping it as a surprise. Waiting for the big reveal.

It must be weird for them to be up on level 12 of the Training Centre building watching the parade on a giant television screen. Last year they were down at the parade with Peeta and I up until we rode out of the massive doors leading into the crowd-lined stadium. I don't know why Snow would change the rule of stylists being allowed to be with the tributes during the parade... maybe it's to make the tributes feel more isolated and alone? But that doesn't really make much sense to me. They're about to go into an arena where they rely on their own ability to survive and protect themselves... how much more isolated and alone can you feel?

The opening music is blasted around the Capitol and we watch on the television screen as the first of the chariots pulls out into the stadium. Commentating, Caesar Flickerman says in an excited voice, "And we begin the Tribute Parade for the 75th Hunger Games! And here comes District 1... oh and don't their costumes look amazing. Lilac and orange... they're the in colours this year, ladies and gentlemen. Yep, they look the picture of luxury."

To me their costumes look almost identical to Marvel's and Clove's last year, except that it's in a different colour.

Caesar continues, "And here is District 2!" The camera does a wide shot of the crowd going wild then cuts back to a close up of the female tribute waving graciously while the male tribute stands on the chariot expressionless. I can't remember his name, and I must have missed it when Caesar announced it only moments before, but I do know that he is considered one of the top contenders to take out the Games. But that doesn't surprise me... the tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4 are always favourites.

It isn't long before it is Prim and Gale's turn to enter the stadium on their chariots. Peeta takes my hand in his and squeezes it gently when Caesar announces "And here comes District 12!"

"Good luck everybody." Says Effie excitedly. "The big moment has arrived!"

As Prim and Gale slowly ride out further on their chariot, the silence is almost deafening. There could only be one person who would be cruel enough to dress them as they are.

Their costumes are white. So white that it reminds me of the dreams I have been having. But there is a small difference. The detail that has made the noisiest of Capitol crowds silent for what feels like an age.

A line of red forms a loop that starts thin enough, but gets thicker as it progresses. It looks innocent enough, except that it forms a circle as the lines loop back around themselves. The shape is unmistakable.

And if there was any doubt who was behind the costume, the lines joined together at the end to form a rose. A red rose…

There was only one person who could be both admirably bold and terribly repulsive at the same time. And it was he was responsible for this clear sign.

President Snow wanted Prim and Gale dead.

And he was making it clear to everybody who the targets were…

* * *

><p><strong>Please Review!<strong>


	6. Forming Alliances

**NOTE**: Thank you everyone who reviewed last chapter: pupulupk, Lorelei Eve, lyoto Machida (x2), mirrorcode, Trdy, Miss Mustang, Meagan Marie, ngochan, Jessie905, Ellenka, Notinyourlifetimehoney, Pass the Porn Tea, Galefan26, CrazyLady867, MrsShortHand, Madame BonBons, Texas-Devil-Or-Angel, NCIS FTW, perdita4321, k, Guest, and peetame. Also, thank you to everyone who added me on their author alerts and favourite lists.

I also wanted to quickly alleviate any concerns about me not finishing this story. I understand that there was a considerable break between the last post and this one. I really am sorry for that. Unfortunately I'm currently writing an Honours thesis that is due in October so a lot of my time is dedicated to that. I will not, however, abandon this story. The plot is all thought out, the angst is all being set up (Peeta's storyline surprisingly is my favourite here!), and I would hate to never write the conclusion (because it surprised even me!). So please be patient.

Also, I know that some of you are hoping that we'll be in the arena soon. Trust me, I'm trying to get there as fast as I can! I do have to set up some important things first, however, which is why I think there will be around three more chapters till the arena.

Anyway, enough rambling. On to the chapter…

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6: Forming Alliances<strong>

"Calm down Katniss." Haymitch says for what must be the fourth time in a little less than two minutes. I glance at him quickly. I cannot read the expression on his face as it seems to display a cocktail of emotions, all of which appear to be fighting for dominance. It's an odd look.

I choose to ignore him.

"He dressed them up as targets!" I say to nobody in particular. "As targets!" I hear Haymitch huff a sigh behind me. He probably rolled his eyes too, knowing him. "How can you be so nonchalant about this?" I ask, whipping around and facing him.

Haymitch looks up at me from his position on the couch and I watch in irritation as he lazily cocks an eyebrow. "Finally ready to stop your ranting, Sweetheart?"

It's a wonder that I have enough resolve to bite back the scathing retort on my lips. My patience levels must be increasing. It's a surprising revelation.

He takes my silence as an answer. "Thank god. Your constant whinging is like a jackhammer to my migraine."

"Your hangover." I correct him, thinking back to the episode before the mentor meeting. I wonder if he knows that his hip flask is still heavily weighing down my pocket. In fact, I wonder if he remembers the episode at all.

He gives no indication that he does, instead he mutters a quick "semantics" before continuing on as if I had never corrected him. "As I was saying, a jackhammer to my migraine." He flashes me a haughty grin in response to my scowl. "Listen, Sweatheart, everybody already knew that Prim and Gale were targets... tonight has not revealed anything new."

"Yes but -"

"No buts. It changes nothing. We continue with our original plan. We market Prim as a valuable ally because of her medicinal skills and we make sure Gale obtains some trapping equipment and weapons so he can do it alone if necessary."

"They'll need sponsors -"

"Tonight wouldn't have changed the way the sponsors feel." He says it with so much certainty that it makes me wonder who he is trying to convince... me or him.

"How do you -"

"Because at this very moment the sponsors will be placing their bets on which mentor the tribute has, not the tribute themselves. Well, unless you have very poor tributes. But we don't. And the Capitol, including the Sponsors, loves both you and Peeta. They will be behind you and Peeta."

I look at Peeta and notice that he is already looking at me intently. "What do you think?" I ask him.

"I think…" I can see him shift uncomfortably, "Haymitch knows what he's talking about." I stare at him for what feels like a minute trying to understand his chosen words. On the surface I can see there is truth in the statement, but beneath I know he is not being completely open and honest with me.

Before I have the chance to question him further a knock on the door surprises everybody.

It's too soon after the parade for it to be Prim and Gale.

"You don't think...?" I overhear Effie asking Haymitch in a strained voice.

I know what she's thinking... and the thought is enough to send a shiver down my spine.

President Snow.

But the person does not drum on the door again. Instead, a white envelope with the word 'Katniss' written in a neat scrawl is pushed under the crack of the door.

"Don't open it." Haymitch says suddenly, getting up from the couch and walking quickly to stand above the envelope. He looks down at it as if it is an important puzzle to solve. I watch his expression turn from one of worry to surprise and after another minute or two he picks up the envelope, turns it over in his hand, and hands it to me. A smug look is etched on his face. "There you go Sweatheart. Proof that I know a lot more than you think. I'll be sitting on the couch... feel free to tell me that I'm right when you're ready."

I share a quick glance with Peeta whose anxious expression is probably mirroring my own before taking the envelope from Haymitch's extended hand and opening it. It is the last thing that I would have expected to see.

"_Katniss,_

_Your tributes are not targets, they're strategy. And I wish to capitalise. Meet me tonight in Level 4's quarters._

_Finnick."_

"Well? What does it say?" I hear Effie ask, drawing my attention away from the letter. I don't acknowledge her; instead my eyes quickly look at Haymitch and then settle on Peeta.

"I think," My face breaks into a relieved grin for the first time since Prim and Gale were selected as Tributes. "District 4 wants to ally with us."

* * *

><p>"How do you know that this isn't a trick?" I watch Gale put the letter down on the table none-too-gently. "I mean, don't you think that it's a bit odd that this is addressed only to you?"<p>

"Maybe it's because he feels that he can trust her." Haymitch answers for me, his arms folded across his chest.

"Oh right, because Peeta and you are so untrustworthy." Gale snaps back. He still has his tribute parade costume on.

"This is a big, big deal Gale. Perhaps you should try to be a little more grateful at the opportunity they're presenting here." Effie suggests tutting slightly.

I watch Gale goggle at her. "Be more grateful?" He says. I can tell that he's trying to rein his emotions in but it's not working very well. "Are you insane?"

In fact, it's not working at all.

"Gale -" I begin but he interrupts me.

He takes a couple of steps towards Effie who seems to shrink a bit as he nears her. "Let us take stock of this situation shall we? I'm wearing a tribute costume which means that in a couple of days' time I'll be shoved into an arena to fight to the death. This costume has a target on it. This Finnick guy is not saying that he wants me or Prim to survive, just that we could potentially fit into his strategy to make his own tributes win. This, in case you have forgotten, means we die. So tell me, what exactly should I be grateful for?"

"Grateful that this alliance could give you at least a couple more hours or days alive!" Effie retorts back in defence, mindful to take a few step backwards to put some space between her and Gale. "But between you and me if you don't want that then I'm more than happy to focus all of my attention on helping Prim. God knows she deserves it more. At least she has manners."

Gale laughs hollowly. It's an awful sound. "Oh please, don't pretend that you care about me Effie. From the moment we boarded the train and you saw that I didn't fit into your perfect etiquette and pristine mould I knew you would be campaigning for Prim anyway."

As if Effie can't stand to look or talk to him any longer, she turns to Peeta and half shrieks "Control your tribute, Peeta!" She gathers her things, ignores Gale's reply of "he doesn't control me!" and slams the door as she exits the room.

A minute later the silence is broken by Haymitch. "You have the potential to win this thing Gale, but your temper could be your downfall."

Gale takes a deep breath trying to calm himself. If he was back in District 12 I know that he would let his frustrations out by going for a hunt, but here there is no such release. "I just can't stand that woman." He says after a few moments.

"She's on your team trying to save your life. I think pissing her off isn't your best strategy. Entertaining perhaps... but not the wisest." Haymitch gives him a half smile and that seems to be all that is needed to swing Gale around. It's the first time I've really taken notice of the fact that Haymitch appears to be quite fond of Gale. Maybe Gale reminds him of himself in some ways. I can see that. They're both stubborn, confident people. In fact, having watched the tapes of Haymitch prior to entering the arena his personality appeared to be quite similar to Gale's now. Or maybe Haymitch just considers Gale as the best candidate for winning this year.

The thought is too emotionally provoking. Prim's vulnerability and fragility suddenly seems too real. So I try to shove those thoughts from my mind. I try to repress them. They don't help Prim, after all. They don't really help anybody.

"I still think we shouldn't trust Finnick or his letter." Gale says, his attention suddenly on me and the letter again.

"Gale -" I begin but this time it is Peeta who cuts me off.

"I agree."

That surprises me. By the look on Haymitch's face I can tell that it surprises him too.

"Wait... what?" My confusion seems to prompt Peeta to elaborate.

"It is odd that it was addressed only to you. Not only that but Mags, the other District 4 mentor, wasn't mentioned either."

"Maybe he thinks that he can charm you because of his looks. He has a reputation for getting most females to do what he wants..." Gale says.

"Because you can really see me doing that can you?" I point out, rolling my eyes in slight exasperation.

Gale and Peeta share a glance. It is an odd moment. I don't think I've ever heard them agree about anything before or look at each other without some amount of dislike. I'm not sure if I like it. But maybe that's because they are agreeing to disagree with me.

"But if the letter is genuine then this could be a good thing." I say, trying to convince them. "Having an ally and not another enemy would surely help us."

Gale stares at me. "They're still the enemy Catnip, ally or not."

"I think we need to discuss this in more detail but not tonight... we're all tired. Why not in the morning when Prim is awake, before training begins? I'm sure Finnick will understand that we need time to think this through. "

I nod my head at Peeta's suggestion along with everyone else in the room but I do not agree with it. In fact, I cannot wait till then. I know that the moment to capitalise is now. Finnick is right.

It takes a little less than an hour till the last person, Haymitch, goes into his room to sleep. After that it takes me a little less than five minutes to throw on one of Cinna's more casual dresses, run a brush through my hair, grab my bag (which was left in the dining area), head out the door and push the button for Level 4 in the lift. And it takes a little less than thirty seconds for me to realise that I should write down some conditions or at least have a plan on a piece of paper before I go into negotiations with another mentor…

Opening my bag I am thankful to see a pad of lined paper staring back at me. I quickly take it out and fish through the bag with my right hand until my fingers clasp around something that feels an awful lot like a pen. Thankfully, it is. I quickly pull the lid off and go to write my first thought, 'who is involved in this alliance', when I realise that somebody has already scribbled on the first page of the notepad.

"_Katniss,_

_Don't go in with a plan. You act better on instinct anyway. Just make sure that you gauge how legitimate this all is and don't get caught up in his charming ways. Both Peeta and Gale are wrong about this. Perhaps if it was some other Mentor and not Finnick then they would subscribe more to the idea. But it can't hurt to hear him out... and you never know if this conversation might help in the future. Don't stuff this up._

_Haymitch."_

I decide to take Haymitch's advice and put the paper and pen back into the bag. As soon as I do the lift doors open. I've reached Level 4. But before I even take two paces out of the lift Finnick is already greeting me with a warm smile and saying things like 'welcome to our humble abode' and 'don't you look pretty, Everdeen'.

I am instantly weary.

* * *

><p>"So... Gale seems like a good fighter." Finnick was fishing and he wasn't really trying to hide it. We had been talking for well over thirty minutes and we had made little progress. I suppose that was mainly my fault. I wasn't exactly willing to hand over much information.<p>

Finnick must have sensed this too because the next thing he says is, "this isn't really going to work Katniss if we can't even discuss the potential of an alliance."

"We're not talking about an alliance here, Finnick. You want to find out as much information about my tributes as you can without offering much yourself."

Finnick looks at me thoughtfully. "Well," He says after a few moments. "Ask away."

"What?"

"You heard me," He says, and leans closer to me. His sudden proximity makes everything hazy for a second before I force myself to remain focused. Maybe Peeta and Gale were right about the whole female effect thing. "Ask me about my tributes."

"Okay, well, what could they offer?"

"Cliona probably not much. She's one of those 'willing to kill but wouldn't know how' types... you know what I mean?"

I look at him sharply. "No, not really."

"Well it doesn't really matter." He shrugs. "Mags is looking after her anyway. Our tributes don't get along so we'll be working separately. This alliance would be between Harper, Gale and Prim."

I don't say anything, surprised at the information he has just presented me with.

Finnick takes my silence in his stride and continues on, "I assume Gale and Prim get along... they are related after all. But what can Harper offer? Quite a lot actually... he's good with a lot of weapons and he's strong. I'm not sure if he is as strong as Peeta but he does have a lot of strength. He could help Gale with protecting Primrose that's for sure."

My eyes snap up to meet his. He is looking at me intently, his sea green eyes piercing mine... trying to read me. I guess my reaction is enough for him. He seems pleased for some reason, and I can only assume it's because he knows that he has hit a nerve. I decide to take over the talking for a while. "Gale does have a lot to offer, there's no surprise there... you already knew that. But Prim, well, she has a lot to offer too. She's a healer." It was the angle we were working on anyway, so I don't think I've given away too much.

Finnick considers this. "Well, that could definitely come in handy for an alliance."

"Tell me something Finnick," I ask him before he has the chance to ask me something else. "You're from District 4 so why are you not considering joining the Careers pack?"

Finnick laughs a little and it is so genuine that it shocks me. "Because people like you. People like Peeta. And the sponsors like you both. So rather than have you potentially taking away money from my tribute, lets join forces and hope to get more sponsors than we would have ever got separately anyway."

I nod my head, agreeing with his logic. "What's the other reason?"

He looks at me, a small smile playing on his lips. "What makes you think there is another reason?" He says.

"Isn't there always?" I reply.

He raises an eyebrow. "You're a smart one Katniss, I'll give you that. Full of surprises."

I don't let his compliment shake me. "So?" I prompt.

He looks thoughtful for a moment. I can tell that he is weighing it up whether to tell me or not. He must decide that he should because the next thing he says is, "Prim and Gale were not reaped by accident."

I feel like saying 'tell me something that I don't know' but I hold my tongue wanting him to go on.

"President Snow chose them deliberately as a punishment for your _indiscretion_ last year with the berries. He doesn't want Prim and Gale to die early on in the games. He'll want your punishment to linger for a while…"

"Snow can't protect them from other tributes if they decide to go after them." I point out.

"No, but at least they'll have some protection from Game Maker intrusions."

I nod my head, understanding. "So you think that by Harper joining Gale and Prim that he too will be protected from the Game Makers." It was not a question.

"That's what we hope." He says honestly, answering it anyway.

It's a logical deduction and a good strategy. Assuming that Harper is as good with weapons as Finnick has suggested, it would also be good to have him as an ally rather than as an enemy.

"I'll need to talk this over with Peeta and Haymitch as well as Prim and Gale you realise, before I can agree."

"Of course."

"And I cannot guarantee anything..."

"Of course."

"And -"

"Katniss?"

"Yes?" I look at him.

"You and I both know that this is going to happen." The statement itself was cocky but in the way he said it there was no hint of arrogance. "This is the best option for all of our tributes."

I know that he is right. "I'll let you know our decision tomorrow."

And just before I walk out the door and into the lift he halts me one last time.

"Oh and Katniss?"

"Yes?"

"I am sorry that it is your sister and cousin who are Tributes."

I don't say anything to that. After all, what more is there to say?

By the time I walk back into District 12's living quarters my head is so full of thoughts that it takes me a while before I realise that I am not alone in the room.

Peeta is there and he is looking at me with a look I cannot place. "Well," He says. "How did it go?"

* * *

><p><strong>Please review... it will save me from thesis insanity! <strong>


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